They say the hottest part of a fire is the white flame; the roaring waves in hues of red, orange and yellow. It isn’t. The blue flame is pretty but deadly.  Flickering and silent. It draws you near and captures you with its beauty. Then it strikes. Lashing out its indigo tendril and it stings. Stings are much worse than a burn. Stings give you a taste, beckoning you closer, unlike the burn that hits full force then heals quickly. Stings fill you up from the inside until all of you burns. Yes, the blue flame is toxic. Poisonous like betrayal.

     My first touch of the blue flame is when she sat with me. All pretty smiles and a friendly hand.  I agreed to everything she said, and followed her, blind with inkling of friendship. I trusted her and believed every word. I gave her homeworks, answers, and filled her in on tests. I knew this was wrong and it stung a bit. But her being friends with me is all that mattered.

     The second encounter with the blue flame was a burning lick. Our woven lie of a friendship was in its halfway mark. There was something off. Every Sunday there is a text from her that she needs help for homework. It was the same excuse: I am going to a restaurant in Manhattan. I knew she was rich and passed this off for nothing more but a tradition with her family. And you know what? I gave her my homework. Never questioned why she didn’t do it the previous day or why does she go to restaurants every weekend. I was wrong and that left a searing mark. I should have recoiled, knowing that the further I go in the more I play into fire.

     After that, I kept on getting stung by the blue fire. It quietly burned me and I screamed without a sound.  When I overheard what she said, I quietly disintegrated to ashes. I’m her friend because she is smart. I didn’t heed the warnings. I was branded with burning mistakes. They don’t manipulate. Somehow, I knew that one day the blue flame will catch me and it will show me its true heat. And it did.