One winter night.

          He came and wrapped his blue wool blanket around my shoulders then sat right in front of me. We both smiled at each other, but said nothing at all. The only sound in the room was that coming from the fireplace, the soft crackle of the fire burning up the wood. I watched as the fire ate unmercifully at the wood. The poor wooden logs, innocent victims of the fire. But the fire knows no good or evil. It starts with a tiny spark, then orange and red flames evolve and they burn their victims alive. I felt pity for the wood, but then I thought to myself, its an inanimate object, it can’t feel any pain at all, but yet again fire does wonders. I took a glance at the man in front of me; the live fire that was burning my heart and leaving a hole for everyone to see. 

         He smiled again and told me he loved me. I forced a smile and suffocated my tears. I told him I loved him too, although what I was longing for was to break down in tears, but that would seem very weak. So I swallowed my pain and my tears and began stitching the hole he burned in my heart, although he promised to stitch it for me. I couldn’t tell him that the reason my heart-burns was because of a stupid, small thing he did. To him it might seem so petty. To me, to my weak and vulnerable heart it has a thousand hurtful meanings. He cuts me and the pain is all I want to feel, I learned how to heal myself, but sometimes it’s so hard to see yourself get burned. I spaced out, and the next thing I felt was his arm around my waist, pulling me close to him. His warm lips brushed against mine. His warm hands ran down my cold back. His gentle touch alleviated me. We can’t live with fire and we can’t live without it. He melted me down in seconds and I forgot what I was hurt about. He lights the flames and puts them out. I just watch them burn over and over again.