I had to blow the candles out,

Because the alarm would go off about them.

„So sensitive, way too sensitive“,

My muted voice mumbled.

I loved my candles so much,

The same candles

That triggered the alarm.

The way how they brightened up

this quite, empty, sad room.

I loved how they danced

With their own shadows,

Hand in hand.

But this damn fire alarm

Was too sensitive.

Again.

It ruined this one, calm, bright moment

The silence and I had shared.

Am I talking about the fire alarm or myself?

We’re both too sensitive, I guess.

Too fragile in a world

Where you can burn whole cities

Without even alarming anyone with it.

We’re all used to the burning,

the dying,

the hurting.

It’s normal.

„You’re worried about the ashes

That are piling up in your own heart?

You’re desperately longing

for the life you’ve always wanted?

You’re sorry for all the people who suffer?

Sorry for yourself?

Oh, grow up, kiddo.

That’s just how the world is.“

But here I am,

Not okay.

Worried.

Desperately longing.

Sorry for them.

Sorry for myself.

It’s just me and this fucking alarm.

Too sensitive.