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Burnt Offering ©️

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When the sun rose, the world softened. The sea shifted from black glass to liquid amber, each wave gilded, each ripple glowing. The deck warmed beneath us, slow and sure, the chill of night retreating as light spread its reach. She was beside me still, her body warm, her devotion quiet, her presence alive in every breath she drew.

The bud was waiting, fragrant and sweet, the emerald of night now a jewel for morning. I broke it open in the glow of dawn, my fingers sticky with resin, her eyes following each movement with calm expectancy. The grinder turned slow, the shavings gathered, the bowl filled in silence that was not empty but full. When the flame touched, smoke rose, white and velvet, curling into the sun’s first rays.

The draw was deep, the exhale long, the air fragrant with sweetness. The haze hung above us, golden now, not heavy but light, not enclosing but opening. With every breath the weight of the world thinned, with every exhale another shadow lifted.

There was no worry. No care. The future ceased its endless whispering, the past stopped its dragging hand. There was only warmth, the sun’s fire pouring over us, the smoke rising to meet it, and the quiet certainty of her body against mine. We leaned back into it, together, not speaking, not needing to. The world was sealed, but in that sealing it was perfect.

And as the rays thickened around us, I felt them not as light but as blessing—heat laid upon skin, warmth pressed into bone, fire sanctifying all that the night had given. Our union was gilded, our pleasure exalted, and the morning crowned us with its silence, its smoke, its sun.

Well Done ©️

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The fire doesn’t touch me at first. It sings around me, a choir of colors I have no name for — blue that tastes like metal, red that smells like breaking teeth.

Then it slips inside my skin.

The world fractures into layers — skin, blood, muscle, thought — each peeling away, blistering, boiling. I can see the steam rising off my arms, but my arms are already gone, already someone else’s mistake.

Breath becomes knives. Each inhale a jagged rake across the throat. Each exhale a scream twisted into smoke.

The ground underneath me is a drum, beating in a language only fire speaks: burn, burn, burn, burn.

I hear the bones crack, not inside, but outside — as if the universe itself is flexing around me, reshaping. The sky drips downward, melting into the fire, into me, into the wet sound of flesh forgetting how to exist.

Time folds. I burn a thousand years in one heartbeat. I fall through the ribs of the world, each bone a torch, each torch a new hell.

Memory catches fire next. Faces liquefy. Places warp. Names vanish into ribbons of white heat.

I reach for something — a hand, a god, an end — but my fingers are smoke, my hands are dreams.

There is no end. Only more burning. More shattering. More becoming something smaller than ash, something thinner than regret.

In the deepest hollow of the pain, when the body is long gone, when even thought itself screams into cinders,

there is only a flicker — a single, small thing — laughing.

Not a scream.

Not a prayer.

Because somewhere, deep down, some part of me understands:

I am not dying.

Laughter. I am becoming fire.