I wish I were a candle. Fire contained. Slow-burning. I want to be able to take the heat. I want to hold something precious, something that is comforting to my friends and threatening to my foes. I want to radiate fresh vanilla. I want to be the centrepiece at a romantic dinner, someone’s gift at Christmas. But that's not who I am. I am rage spilling over. I flicker in the gentle wind, my sisters stare in wonder as I attempt to fix the pain with wax. I like to pretend that I'm not all fire, that there's some sweet scent in the flames. I like to pretend I can contain it. I like saying I have control over myself, but I am nothing like a candle. There is nothing uncorrupted inside of me. When I am given away, there will be nothing magical about it. I hiss like a house fire. And I wish I were a candle.