Poetry: The Old Flame

First steps into the world of poetry

As part of my commitment to showing up online every day, I’m going to share some work that I’ve done that I previously would never have imagined sharing — poetry.

Now, I’m not a poet. In fact, I often look at poems that I’ve written and feel embarrassed. Poetry was part of the creative writing element of my degree and I was forced to write it. It certainly wasn’t my choice but I’m glad that I did.

I wrote three poems altogether that I was most proud of and I had plans to write a full pamphlet of poems with a theme of fire. This was going to be one of them. It never materialised but I think I might like to try again one day.

My perfect shape is gone,

No definition left.

All I could do was burn

but he questioned why and

snuffed me out before I

could damage myself more.

Not realising that

he was the one who lit

me up in the first place.

He examines my left-

over wax, wishing I

was still the same bright light.

His ego warm from fanned

flame, enjoyed the soft scent,

soothed by my glow. But then

extinguished. Cold water,

sizzling wick, the warmth gone.

I smoked onto his tongue.

I smoked into his eyes.

He hated the taste of

what he had done to me.

This poem is about rejection. In my mind I was imagining not a lover, but someone that the protagonist of the story becomes infatuated with, and the object of her affection leads her on, which ultimately results in his rejection of her when she burns too hot. He extinguished her flame, then had the audacity to be surprised that she stopped glowing.