Burned

You know how you can “carry a torch” for someone? Well, I’ve been repeatedly bashing a torch on the ground for about four years now. There are still embers flickering on the wick.

Some nights the flames barely lick the dark, moonless sky, and on others they catch fire on the hay fields surrounding a smoldering bonfire.

Some nights I throw the torch away from me, thinking it would finally go out and I would be at peace with the darkness. Others, I can’t help but cradle the torch in my hands and gently blow on the embers, hoping with everything inside me that I won’t be alone in the dark.

For six years I’ve done this with varying degrees of “success” on both sides. Most of the time—regardless of what I do—I can’t help but feel like a bad person for carrying the torch in the first place. I have no idea when it appeared in my palm, and I sometimes wonder if it started out as a simple match instead.

I suppose I’m telling you this to ask if I should find a flowing river or a gallon of gasoline to fix my problem. And regardless of what choice is made, when the “fix” should be administered.