It burned my shoulder, having spat out from a small red flame. A small hole in my shoulder, all black and charred around the edges. It burned only a little above my collarbone, but my heart also had been cut deep. You could see the wound to my skin, where celebrations had bubbled over, and gotten a little too fierce. But the wounds to my heart, they are less visible. You only see those when I open up, when I can no longer hold back the storm. When the tears come streaming and words come tumbling out. 

At its best, it was love. At its worst, a ghost in my life. One I forever chased and longed to feel more of, despite its flight from my sight. My heart beat for it, day and night, and I checked relentlessly for it while away. From smiles and pleasant surprises, it became anxious worrying and tears. My days went from bursting at the seams with colour, to like living life on black-and-white film. I couldn’t see the red flame burning anymore.

I let it go too long: off its leash, it bit me, chewed me up, and spat me back out again. All before running off, leaving my heart torn up and alone on the wet grass. But it was so pretty. The pain was so nice. Two-word replies after hours of waiting supplied a type of torment I became addicted to. Missed calls from 3am and infrequent conversations kept the embers of hope and love just about glowing amongst the mound of cold ash. I was addicted to the highs, no matter how rare they became, and the aching that followed was just par for the course in my mind. It was love, it could never do wrong. Not to me. 

It doesn’t end. I still mourn people and loves long gone. Time moves them to the background, but they never leave the stage. The play goes on, and new people and experiences take on leading roles, but the shadows around the curtains are full of mourned friendships and relationships, and the pain that came with them.

Lines on my legs remind me of wandering through thorn bushes, heartbroken and drunk, crying and screaming into the night sky behind the trees. But you can’t see the lines carved into my heart, cut into my love. Smashed and broken and put back in my chest, it still beats, albeit not as fiercely. It has subsided, but will return in time. Time heals all I believe, even heartbreak. For now, however, I will see the world through my tearful eyes and hear it through sensitive ears. 

I hear the birds whistle in the trees, and the tarmac crunch underfoot. I still water my little plant, the out-of-control fire couldn’t burn that. Fireworks crack in the dead of night and remind me of the shotgun shells of text messages which were blasted through my chest. The three dots signalling to me that an assault was imminent, and the grey bubbles which cut me deep.

Broken pieces of my sense of self all fell to the floor when I first saw it again. I saw it again and realised it was no longer there, and it hadn’t been for far too long. I saw it again and wondered if it had ever been there at all. 

Maybe I dodged a bullet, or a fire, but I loved the heat as I bathed in it. Like a moth, I flew too close, repeatedly, and came away with burns. Not burns to my skin; burns you can’t see. These don’t char and turn to ash, they linger on my heart like a lit match in my chest. It pains me, but it will fade with time. I know I’ll find a flame which doesn’t sear me, and gives me only warmth, one day. I trust that I will. A flame which burns bright and warm, and I can take comfort in the presence of. I look forward to the night in which that red flame lights up the dark around me.