Flame and Soil

Fire coils gently around my wrist,

not in violence, but in recognition.

It burns in quiet spits, deliberate and knowing,

withering the weight that has clung too long

the ache that tightened its grip in silence,

the heaviness that learned how to breathe where I could not.

The flame does not rush.

It lingers, as if listening for consent,

as if aware that endings must be witnessed

before they are released.

And it does.

The flame moves through each passage,

Leaving only ash

Not as ruin,

But as soil of what will learn how to live

again.

i am not burned.

this is who I become.