The Wick

There was once a wick, white and spiral, that stood sturdy by the help of hardened wax. Protected from falling, she was grasped too tightly, and couldn’t ever get free. 

Why can’t I live like the rug? She wondered. It didn’t even want to move.

Or why can’t I live like a light bulb. She whined. Its light could wander for miles.

When there was no answer and she thought she’d give up, a match was made in heaven.

“If you want to be free, I’ll light you on fire, but you’ll never be sturdy again.”

The match said no more and the wick couldn’t wait. He struck her and torched her soft hair.

The wick felt a warmth she had never felt before and knew she was changed forever. The wax began to melt as her body grew taller; the flame could not stop its fire.

The wax slid past her white cotton spirals and dripped against its jar. A coldness passed her middle from the exposure of open air and she looked for the nearest comfort.   

“What do I do now!? I have no support!” The wick looked down at the floor. She had just touched the glass, but she couldn’t feel her body. She had come to the end of her rope.