Writing Excercise 1

On the last day of snow
while we slept
on the back porch
you confessed you were
a candle stick.
Wax dripping
down your torso
hardening into speed bumps
on the track to your heart.
That every flame before me
left scorch marks
behind your eyelids.
You cry them
everytime you wake up
somewhere unfamiliar.
Your lipstick
on his neck
where you don't remember
kissing him.
Your wick
is a fuse
attached to your trigger finger.
You burn these walls,
replace them
with skeletons
from our bedrooms
treating them like home.
Washing your bed
with amonia
to get out the yesterdays
scratching your back
when you sleep.
Your diary
is a history book
promising to tell you
about tomorrow.
It holds secrets
you tell it,
the future
is your flame to catch.
Let the wax
melt over your face,
feel the warmth
of letting go.