Vanilla Sage

Sitting in the shadows
amongst my isolated thoughts,
with the slight obnoxious flicker
of the candle he bought me
when he was
‘just thinking of me’.

Vanilla Sage.
‘Melts consistently and evenly,
radiating enough fragrance
to fill an entire room’.

But I prefer October.

The orange flickering flame
burns holes into my deliberations;
while the sweet extracts of vanilla
distract me from the voices
premeditating,
the evil sins
I am hoping on committing
for October.

I sit there
in my half-lit room of gloom
and the flame is shining on me now,
melting the colors in my soul.

Warm yellow hues
coalescing with burnt reds,
fading into dull brown

and then

black.

I envisioned October.
Running through the woods,
that smell of wet earth
and rotting leaves.
But tonight,
October takes me nowhere.

It keeps me here.

Watching hot wax brew,
thickening around the edges
of the candle,
its golden flame
dangling over me,

lingering.

The first drip,
there it goes,
erupting down my neck
like a volcano,
with all its shades of fire,
burning and melting
over my collarbone,
gliding between my chest,

stinging—

thick hot wax,
bubbling
and scarring
my pretty, soft skin.

And if he were to ever ask me
where I inherited
such a smooth line of a scar,
I would tell him,

I got it from October.