Dancing in the Flames of Demise
Beautiful.
Not like a flower, like a flame.
A flame that never dies.
She was a spark.
A spark that lit the entire world when she walked into the room.
She was spinning and crashing and burning in her beauty.
And she would whisper to her flames to stop
To stop dying
To stay alive for her
Because the only thing she had left was the comfort of her burns.
She fell in love with her ashes and her scars and everything in between.
She would sing and dance in the very smoke that tainted her soul.
The smoke would make her cry, and cry, and cry until a glimpse of dawn.
The smoke would make her cough and make her sick and make her hold her breath.
The smoke would threaten to kindle a fear so magnificent that none she loved would ever see the sun again.
But she would continue to sing and dance into the light because she knew it was better than the darkness.
In a single second, she wondered what would happen if she inhaled the flames.
If she let them consume her and win her over.
If she danced so hard into the flames that they began to scorch her feet and melt her soul.
If she would become the very ashes that she so dearly adored.
But that second would pass, and she would remember who she was.
She was the flame itself.
She was a spark.
A spark that lit the entire world when she walked into the room.
She was spinning and crashing and burning in her beauty.
And she would whisper to her flames to grow.
To grow and try and consume her.
But they never would.
She would never let them.