Opposite

You were beautiful once—
not the loud kind,
but the quiet glow
that makes a moth believe in warmth.

I mistook your glimmer safety.
Pressed my palms to your light
and called the burning holy.

Your voice was honeyed smoke—
sweet enough to breathe in,
slow enough to choke on.

You held me
like something fragile,
like something you loved—
and all the while
your hands were learning
the shape of my throat.

I followed you the way night
follows the sun—
inevitable, blind,
trusting the dark to be gentle.

Looking into your eyes
was like peering through glass
into a house long abandoned.
Still.

Dust floating where love
used to live.

Your kisses tasted like sugar
left too long on the flame—
caramel turning bitter,
sweetness collapsing into ash.

When you lay beside me,
your chest rising with mine,
I could almost believe
we were two candles
keeping each other alive.

But wax only melts one way.

The first time you said
“I love you,”
it wrapped around me
like silk.
Like a ribbon.
Like a fuse.

I didn’t know
I was already lit.

The day you left,
I thought the fire had finally died.
I mistook the smoke for peace.

But you came back—
and we were only sparks
looking for something to ruin.

We burned brighter the second time.
That’s the cruelest part.
The warmth felt real.
The glow was almost tender.

Until the air thinned.

Until the room filled with black.

And when the last light left us,
when there was nothing left to scorch,
what was once ugly
became strangely beautiful—

because ashes, at least,
are honest
about what they are.

metal, symphonic metal, violin, rock, rap