Burn (Poem)

Moistened bedsheets and my weary mind

are all I have to escape from the burn; my burn!

The burn that clutches the future I’ll find,

that returns to scald me at every corner and turn.

It will come tomorrow too: it reminds me of him,

the way he sets my perfection essence on fire.

With myself but one part of his partners and sin,

I easily become steeped with immoral desire.

The smoky ink of demons is consuming my room;

persuading the glaring clocks to eerily glow.

Old telephone calls announce night’s loom:

darkened thoughts appear and begin to show.

Eccentric as it may be to scrape my fiery skin,

there are only marks that emerge from pain.

His voice calls out from the black hole within,

telling me to never look back again.