The Candle That Cried My Blood

I walked into a room that hadn’t seen light in too long, and it wasn’t just the absence of light that pressed in on me—it was the silence. A kind of stillness that felt too heavy, like the walls were suffocating on the weight of years they’d held without a breath. In the center, there was a candle, half-burned, its wick bent as if it had lived too long, endured too much. I lit it, though I didn’t really want to see. It flickered weakly at first, like it wasn’t sure it was meant to last. I stared at it—because it wasn’t just a flame, it was something else. Something I knew better than I should.

I didn’t speak, but I whispered anyway. I whispered everything I had been holding inside—words, confessions, pain, pieces of myself that I couldn’t put anywhere else. The candle didn’t respond, but it didn’t need to. It just listened. And then, as if it had given in to my quiet, the wax began to melt, slow and deliberate, like the surrender of someone who has given up on pretending to be whole. When it dripped onto my finger, it burned. But it wasn’t a sharp, violent burn—it was slow, like it wanted me to feel everything at once. To remember what it felt like to be alive, even if that feeling was pain.

And then I saw it. The way the wax pooled and fell, like the weight of years, the weight of every part of me that had been swallowed in silence. It didn’t just melt; it bled. It bled like tears I hadn’t been able to cry, like the shame that I never let out. And it was my blood, my sins, slipping away. Every drop that landed, every soft curve of wax trickling down—the candle was me, and I was it. I wasn’t just watching something burn, I was watching myself burn.

People don’t see it, do they? They don’t see what it costs to glow. They love the light. They love the warmth. But they never see the sacrifice that comes with it. They don’t see the parts of you that shrink as you try to keep giving, giving until there’s nothing left but the edges of yourself. They never see the melted wax. They only see the flame.

I’ve burned like that, over and over. Giving pieces of myself away until there’s nothing but the ash of who I was left behind. And yet, they clap. They cheer for the light, never asking how much of me it takes to keep shining. Never asking if the candle is still there when it’s finally out.

The flame flickered, dimming, small and fragile. And then, a breeze—soft, almost gentle—came, and the flame was gone. Just like that. No fanfare. No final cry. It was gone. But the wax—my blood, my tears—was left. And the smell was gone, too. No scent of burning. Just the memory of something that once was.

Maybe we’re all just candles—lit without asking, burning because that’s what we’re supposed to do. We shine for others, even when no one asks if we’re okay, if we’re still whole, if we’re still breathing. Maybe we burn because it’s expected, because that’s what we’re taught. But no one ever stops to see the drip, the silent tears, the way we shrivel and shrink just to stay bright. We give and give, and when there’s nothing left, they move on to the next flame, the next candle. It’s easy to forget that what’s left behind—the smoke, the wax—is all that’s real.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not that we burn. But that we burn until we’re nothing. And no one stays long enough to mourn what’s left. The wax, the wick, the body that was once alive with something more than just light.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s the point. We’re not meant to last. We’re meant to burn. And when we’re gone, when the breeze comes and takes everything we were, we become something else. Not the light, not the flame—but the smoke that rises, the memory that fades. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe we burn so that others can remember what warmth felt like, even if they never knew where it came from.

-Christina Dcosta