The bruises spread in spring blooms across my lonely skin. Destruction tattooed as deep violet blossoms and dainty rose buds. My eyes wilting from my body’s constant insistence on standing sentry to the plagues of night. Burning words, poured out, rubbing raw against my throat. Short bursts of relief from the ceaseless, internal battle that pushes my veins, unrelentingly to the surface. My lungs certain that the blood rushing to my periphery will no longer allow them to fill. And as my eyes dance their involuntary climb towards the sky, a hand closes around my throat. And I am sure this is the end. My mouth pours, silently, ridding my bones of all the damnation. And the hand pulls me from my faults. And his mouth closes our distance as he drains the words from me. Shoving them down inside himself. And he pushes his own blazing fire down into the pit of me. Screams of light and oxygen satiating my covetous ache for grace. And he lit me up until I was all he could see. He lit me up until I was inextinguishable. He lit me up. Until I was as unending as him.