Silk

While everyone else takes their hands off the burning stove,
I taunt myself for not being able to handle the heat.

His voice lingers in between the hissing and sizzling of my skin:
"Why are you so weak?" — he’s right.

I was cut from silk,
Stitched and sewn together with thread made from the clouds,
Cleansed with the tears of the romantic, the dreamer, and the fantasist.

Silk burns fast,
So fast that when a flame touches it,
It dissolves into thin air.

I wasn’t made for the heat,
But unless I chase flames, I will be left behind.

The softness of my soul scares me.
Shouldn’t I want what everyone else wants?

I can’t frolic in the gardens forever--
What will everyone think of me?

Everyone’s watching me,
Batting their eyelashes in anticipation of my next act.

They’re made of glass and steel;
I am destined to be caught on their edges.

I take my hand off the stove,
Expecting to hear a gasp,
Expecting the universe to collide and burst.

But the room has fallen prey to silence.
I’m the only one here.

As the curtain begins to close,
I imagine all that I have ever wanted:

To grow a pair of wings
So that I can float amongst the stars.

To be put in a trance
As I watch watercolors swirl inside of a cup.

To be consumed by the warmth of the sun
Without a care in the world.
​
One less hand on the stove
Means one more hand to hold.

⋯