by Alyssa Moore | Twitter: @alyssamo74
Hey there, champ, it’s me again. Your weakly scented Autumnal-Breeze-Apple-Cider-Pumpkin-Patch candle has been scooped out from your basement junk drawer where you keep the rat traps, and you’re excited to light me up for the third year. I resonate with that excitement, but we need to talk. See, it’s time for me to go.
You knew this would have to happen sometime, right? Every year you display me in the center of the coffee table. All year, you build up the grandeur of fall, but when the time comes, you refuse to burn me down. You claim that I’m more “for aesthetic,” that when the time comes, you’ll light me for a special occasion. I don’t want that occasion to, once again, be that someone farted.
Hear me when I say that it’s time for me to move on: I need you to burn me down. Re-gift me. Pitch me in the trash.
All other seasonal items get to move on. Your sweaters get donated and replaced with nearly identical sweaters. Your lattes and coffees are chugged so fast that you get diarrhea in the pumpkin patch parking lot. Boots are vomited on during the office Friendsgiving, and cuffing season closes when Brian ghosts and settles down with his longtime other hookup.
Repeatedly though, I am here. My orange casing drags the smell of Nutmeg-Clove-Cinnamon-Bakery from room to room like a hospice patient on parade. This is not the life I dreamt for myself. This is not the life you dreamt for me either.
Remember when we first met in the Marshalls/HomeGoods combination store aisle? You smelled dozens of candles, but none were just right. Until me. You pictured us holed up on a cold Friday afternoon. I would be flickering while you scrolled through Brian’s new girlfriend’s Instagram story. You envisioned me burning with a crackle while you cooked a meal that involved a penis-shaped gourd. You didn’t love me, you loved the idea of me.
My vaguely Cinnamon-Dead-Leaves-Fire-scented wax made you melt. Now please, for the love of God, I’m the one that needs to melt.
We had our honeymoon phase, like all new couples. I’ll always treasure the time when you used me as a make-shift birthday candle. (I think we can both agree how awkward that was, seeing as I’m way too fat to sit on top of a cake.)
But after our honeymoon phase, I think we both know that the spark went out. Maybe we shared a Crisp-Apple-Pumpkin-Coffee flame once in a while, like the time you burned Brian’s pictures, but those moments were rare and fleeting. Your fear of burning the house down made your walls go up. I get that, really I do. Plus, now with the cats? It’s just too risky. But you need to let me go.
You’ll find someone better, you always do. I know you’ve already been eyeing that Evergreen-Cookie-Snowball-Hot-Chocolate-scented candle you have in the hall closet… and I’m at peace with it. Think how happy you could be without me. I don’t know where your future will take you, but I know I can’t be in it anymore. So please, please I beg of you, let me die. Or at the very least, consider replacing me with a can of Cinnamon Apple Febreeze.