la petite mort

A candle is lit. the flame engulfs the wick, greedily
burrowing through melted wax to travel lower and lower.

Soft, velveteen fingers entwine themselves in my hair, caressing, stroking, pulling, yanking.

Plush gives way to a cold, hard interior,

And nails graze against my neck, chest, stomach, hips. 
Skin under the nails is soft, pliable, so easily corrupted.

The wax spreads as the flame devours the wick with even more fervor.

I feel buried, trapped under miles of sand, the more I try to claw my way out, the more deeply I am buried, forgotten.

Whispers that had tickled before surround me with the infinite, shifting grains, 
but now the words carried by the warm exhalation worm their way into my ears, burrow in my brain

With disregard for the human, hunger only for parts. And as much as I want to,

I cannot leave. I am trapped by a whirlwind and the sensation of
roots forming around my limbs, dooming me for an eternity without light.

The flame flickers as the wick burns out, the wax dissipated into the cold air

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