The girl with the beauty, the beauty so divine, walks like a whisper to the back room. Lights long put out, windows she covered herself. The only thing in the room in the back is herself, and the candle. A rather large candle, of yellowed wax and flower carvings on the side.
She walks to the candle, pulls the hidden matches from beneath it. strikes a match against the rough section of the packaging, and after a few times, getting a spark and flame.
The girl with the beauty holds the flame to the wick, until it, too, gets a small flame atop it. She sits back, and waits.
After a few minutes, the girl takes the candle, pulls her dress above her knees, and pours the wax upon her skin.
She likes the burning sensation, the pain of the heat. The way she can feel the wax harden as it dries, and crumbles from her body.
She repeats this many times, a daily ritual. Always poured in the same place on her calf, she wears long skirts to hide the now permanent red mark on her skin, even when the sun beats down with no mercy.
She picks off the remaining wax, repeats this procedure five times more. The burning sensation comes again, she smiles at the pain. She picks off the remaining dried wax, scrapes the rest on the floor into her hand.
She walks to a covered window; peels back the sheet covering it. She holds her hand out, releases the wax. The wind blows the hardened wax away, out of her reach.
The candle, sitting patiently, regains the girl's attention. She returns to its side, lifts it and carefully blows it out. Hides the matches underneath it, places the candle in the middle of the room.
The girl with the beauty, the beauty so divine, steps out, wishing that it could be the last time she closes that door, but knowing it won't be.