Candlewick Girl
She Burns From the Inside
The flame doesn’t explain itself, and neither do I.
They think stillness is the absence of motion. I know it as a pact—a slow combustion. The world claws at the window, all noise and hunger, but here, the flame bends only to the breath I give it. I keep no clocks, only wax. I measure time in the weight of the air, the flicker before the gutter, the moment the wick remembers to burn. Don’t mistake the calm for surrender. This is the work: to burn clean, even as the dark presses in.
What I'm Into: beeswax tapers, the cold knot in my stomach, watching shadows curl like smoke, lavender-scented cardigans, the drip of finite light
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