The candle broke on the corner shelf and spilled hot wax all over the floor and my bare legs. I picked up the shards, heartbroken, the wax and ceramic stinging into my flesh but I didn’t care. It had been the gift you’d given me despite my refusal to speak to you—your act of twisted love reaching out toward the heart that would not take it. 

Oh, but my heart did take it. I did not know at the time, but when the candle broke, when the splatters of red burned angrily into my skin, I realized what I had done. Though you have hurt me worse than a thousand burns, chipped from my spirit a thousand fragments, how can I refuse you? These warm tears speak of the blood that is still pumping in my heart—I am not some cold thing as you have implied, but a living creature. 

I burned your candle every evening and it was a comfort to me. Now it’s broken, as you are, as I am. Tonight was the 3rd time I tried to throw it away. It was the 3rd time I picked it up and was reminded that my heart still beats—still warms the tears that slide down my cheeks. It was the 3rd time I put it back down on my dresser again, leaving it to remind me of the mistakes we both have made in spite of our attempts to rectify the others.

Tomorrow I will get rid of it. I’m so sorry.