This Little Light of Mine by Elise Pure
Oh how romantic you were,
to fashion us with matching nooses,
and rope burns interchanging,
matched to scars that compliment.
It was a selfish wish of mine,
that he would still feel something
besides the labored gasps of passion
that tricked our starving flame to flight.
Who thawed the angel's frozen beauty?
You let us build our love from snow
and handed me a perfect match—
did you think I would resist the glow?
From his hands of omnipresent heat,
a desperate warmth for winter nights,
but not enough to beat the cold,
to melt together mismatched lives.
And now it seems I'm always cold,
even when the sun burns brightest,
and warmest held in dangerous hands,
that swore to hold the tightest.