Slaughter

I was fire,
built to warm you at my hearth,
flush your icy hands pressed to me;
my purpose your comfort, your relief,
I danced to inspire your joy, my fuel.

now
"there!" you crow, "another spark!"
(a mere postmortem twitch of tendon)
and ZIP whip about and piss out
the hopeless speck of life
(the scalpel stabs, severs)

I was fire, am now ash. I am apart.
I cannot cry. I have no eyes. you slaughter
parts of me I've never seen, you lit.

"the fire's out" says no one, "stop."