Tapered Flame

 

I am walking on threadbare nerves,

a queen unthroned by chemistry,

my mind a burning cathedral

where prayers now echo as screams.

They said “taper,” as if the fire

could be politely turned to smoke.

But my veins know better—

they riot in silence,

my breath is a battlefield.

My child, five suns in orbit,

spins galaxies of sound and need—

and I, the weary moon,

try to keep gravity

from collapsing.

I want to scream.

Not because I don’t love—

but because I love too hard,

too constantly,

with no place to pour the overflow.

Every sigh is a spell not to shatter.

Every “no” I whisper to the void

is a thread that stitches me

back into the shape of mother.

This is the week of becoming—

not the soft, serene kind.

But the cracked-earth bloom,

the blood-mouthed phoenix,

the woman who walks through fire

to meet herself again.

I will not apologize

for breaking,

for burning,

for needing.

This is how goddesses molt.

Not gently—

but gloriously.