Untitled

Alyssa Witovet || Spring 2021

oil drips between knuckles, onto harsh
wax as intentions, carved from brittle tools, 
seep between folds in my skin. 
the candle warms in my palm, glides out of its
indifference, as do i. 
we bitterly accept salt
into miniscule wounds and thank Earth
for reminding us we are
pulsating, yearning
things. the lighter, almost
empty, sparks four times before the wick
awakens to bite my thumb. 
the fire blinds me, aspiring to be Sun; i am unable to
rest until it melts away. singed
jasmine finds me daydreaming, while charred mint reconciles
visions with flesh. tonight, i sleep
without the Moon. in its place, i embrace green
salt, white ash, and a throbbing
thumb.