the invisible flame

there is a flame no one sees but me it lives beneath the skin, gnaws like hunger with teeth made of ash and shame. I lit it myself, in the quiet rooms where mirrors accused and silence agreed. it started as a spark a thin red line, a whisper of control in a world always shouting. some nights I feed it with fire press metal to flesh, watch the skin blossom into blistered confession. it asks for more and I obey because pain is clean, and hunger is holy when nothing else is. they call it self-destruction as if I am not the architect and the ruin, as if this body isn’t just a bonfire meant to burn itself into something worth loving. I do not ask for rescue. I do not scream. I burn because I must. because cold has teeth and fire, at least, is honest. there are no extinguishers for a blaze this quiet only time, only scars, only the long slow ache of learning to be warm without burning.