Stirring the Embers

I am at the mercy of the hand that stirred the embers. Should I be grateful for this jolt in my life or should I be more grateful for being blessed with a hand that cared even only for a while?

I am tired of being the whore of that hand. A whore that is never penetrated yet passed along to a friend as if I am a property paid with a few dates and warm hugs and a fleeting kisses. Maybe I would like to take back what is mine and to be me again. 

But I am helpless at the hand that stirred the embers. When the winds are howling cold in the wilderness, to sit around the fire would give you comfort and the peace that will rock you to sleep. In the morning when all the embers are left of the fire, one only needs to stir it and feed it with wood to start the fire again.

He left me sleeping for too long- two long years.  Maybe the fire never went out during the long night for I never felt the cold. Or someone might have covered me with warmth in his absence. The truth, I can never tell. For I am at the mercy of the hand that stirs the embers.

Embrace the fire or leave and build a fire elsewhere.