The Fire. And The Coward.

The most beautiful woman
you’ll ever know.
I glow
like the sun,
like fire,
like fireflies.

I warm those around me.
My light slips through the cracks
crafted by the pain of life.

Contagious like laughter.
Soft like velvet.
Hospitable like an Arab.

The thing about my fire—
it shelters, it gives,
it never asks where, what, or who.

And then you came,
my first beloved coward.

You lit a fire, of mine, just for you.
Awakened my sun because you were cold.
Waited for my fireflies to come out.

But all you wanted to do was—
make a soup.
A soup of ego.

You wanted to feel my warmth on the inside,
and when the soup burned your tongue,
you used all the wood.
Silenced the sun.
Expelled all the fireflies.

The thing is,
my dearest coward of all the men I met…

Fire knows how to dance.
The sun doesn’t need permission to rise.
And fireflies will breed and glow.

You, my one and only coward—
You will always be cold inside.
And doomed.

Like every coward,
you always end in three acts:

You take.
You burn.
You lose.