So is the Candle.

Candles lie about themselves.
They present as gentle.
They say: I am warmth.
I am enough. I will keep the dark at bay.

But wax is slow suicide,
and flame survives by eating what holds it.
A wick believes in burning
until belief becomes loss. Death.
Light comes not
because the candle is faithful,
but because it consents to being consumed.

This is what belief costs—
not doubt answered,
but substance surrendered.

There are nights when the candle gutters,
spits smoke against the glass,
leaves the room smelling of ruin.
Nights when the dark does not retreat
but leans in closer to see what will fail next.

Faith is not the glow.
Faith is the choosing to stay lit
when flame brings pain, when heat warps air,
when remaining intact would be easier. Happier.

Some candles crack.
Some collapse into pools
of useless brightness.
Some burn too long and blacken
the walls they were meant to warm.

Belief does not guarantee beauty.
It only guarantees exposure.
And still—light happens.
Not cleanly.
Not safely.
Not without cost.

The room is changed,
and so is the candle.