The burning of my heart, how it aches

to set the world on fire, with such rage,

a passion that used to lull me to sleep.

To build a fire until my furnace breaks.

It’s the dark hour that consumes my soul

poised over fading keys in the moonlight.

Where slender fingers wrap around my throat,

with claw-like nails digging beyond control.

They prick the skin, nursing a painful necklace

begging me to speak the forgotten truth.

I can’t recognise if it’s the heart or the brain

screaming; my limbs are wild and restless.

The tingling feeling starts to burn and sting.

An uneasy quiver corrodes my veins.

I suffer silently, stripped bare of hope,

no words to write, no sounds to sing.

A scar I can’t blur, a pain I can’t tame,

a thorn on my side — feels like I’m dying.

The love inside me has nowhere to go,

no vessel to contain or quench my flame.

I never dreamed of falling in love,

like a constant cascading waterfall

current pummeling the water below,

Akin to a rickety bridge above.

Endless darkness beckoning underneath

the smell of fire and decaying leaves

when the sun goes down and the night

is suffocating in its silent, dark wreath.

Photo by Fred Kearney on Unsplash

Feminist journalist and writer advocating for social change. Poetry is my creative form of expression.