After the Fire

The smell still lives in my hoodie—

smoke and melted plastic,

like a bad memory that learned to knit.

I should throw it out. I don’t.

﹁﹂

The kitchen wall has a faint shadow

where the calendar used to hang.

We scrubbed and scrubbed,

but heat writes in invisible ink.

﹁﹂

People said, “At least you’re safe,”

And I nodded like a polite student.

Yes, yes, safe—

But my hands shook for days

When the toaster clicked.

﹁﹂

I kept the one mug that didn’t crack.

It’s ugly. It’s mine.

The glaze bubbled near the handle

Like it tried to scream and chose quiet instead.

﹁﹂

At night I replay the moment

The alarm went off—

that animal sound—

and how I moved, finally moved,

fast as truth.

﹁﹂

After, there was ash in my hair,

And I hated myself for crying

over a stupid shelf of books,

over photos that turned to black lace.

﹁﹂

But listen—

What survived in me isn’t embarrassed.

It stands there, soot-streaked,

holding a small, stubborn spark

like a secret it won’t apologize for.

﹁﹂

Some mornings I laugh too loud,

like I’m testing the ceiling.

Some mornings I just sit

and let the quiet be warm.

﹁﹂

I’m rebuilding. I’m not heroic.

I’m just here, still.

And somehow that feels…

unfinished, but true.