On My Own Terms, Nina Raemont

On My Own Terms

By Nina Raemont

The flesh of my palm began to redden with each enduring second that you maintain I keep holding on.

Oh love, Why didn’t you relinquish my pain when you knew the burning coal within my hand was losing ignition?

You prolonged the pain, allowing the flaming hot to fizzle as I struggled to maintain a grip.

And for what?

The scar would be the same Perhaps a little smaller Perhaps with edges less callous Perhaps a center less tender

If you’d have just told me If you’d have just told me If you’d have just told me

You hid behind indifference and apathetic remarks as if I didn’t have eyes that could see your insolence as if I didn’t have ears that could hear your half-heartedness.

The days went past, each documented by a drop of water falling from the eye landing on the cheek drying on its own.

The third degree burn has healed since then Less red More pink A scar that no longer stings A scar that has found solace within itself

The next time a burning hot coal is placed in my hand, I will pick it up on my own terms.

And next time, when it does burn too deep when it corrodes my skin When it comes to a point Where there is no longer any point of a strong grip I’m going to allow myself to let go.