Warm Mug of Phantom Poetry

He liked to set fires So it's no wonder he lit the match inside my body forced me to burn alive  So he could keep his cold unbeating chest warm,  He didn't care about the homes he destroyed,  he just wanted to watch everything go up in flames Every time he turned on the stove, I watched his eyes dance like tinder,  his fingers melted my skin, like wax, my words became a puddle of oil,  He turned my "no" to anything to just keep me from the 3rd degree,  Anything to turn my not-yes in to “well, maybe,” To keep me from giving him The cold shoulder. It doesn’t take long Before these lungs begin to Smoulder  I feel numb, as the Sparks still hit the rocks with a gentle hum I am filled with the memory of his smoke How my ears miss the sounds i made when i choked, I've began to romanticize his arsen like tendencies,  no longer something to fantasize, there were no remedies I think I craved being the charcoal, his fuel, I was his tool Now there is ice in the spots he used to be and I still can't get my voice out my throat I remember how In his presence it didn't even feel like 5 degrees needed a coat There are icecles hanging on my spine, the smog he left will always be apart of this body i call mine  I don't think I miss the burning, I just think i miss the warmth of someone who never loved me. ©N. J. Saroff 1-17-19 --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app