Pyre Song Psalm

I am a shrine to bad wiring,

and nobody’s calling the electrician.

Let the sparks catch.

Let the fuse hum hymns of combustion.

***

Every breath, an accident,

and I keep apologizing

for still breathing.

But I’m only ever holy

when I’m breaking.

***

The voice in my head

would rather see me dead—

but I’ve started writing psalms

in the blood that’s not leaking.

***

So burn the temple.

Let the smoke name me.

Let the silence stagger,

bloated with borrowed meaning.

***

I told the world I was soft,

and it split me open to prove it.

I pleaded in whispers, and the silence smirked.

I stayed kind, and they called it consent.

***

I wore my own skin like a question.

Tried to outrun the bruise by naming it beauty.

Tried to speak without splintering—

but my voice shattered like winter glass.

***

They wanted quiet. I gave them chaos.

They called it defiance. I claimed the fury.

What they mistook for breaking

was simply the clang of iron bones becoming.

***

But I never stopped reaching.

Even as the ground forgot my weight.

Even as the light turned scalding.

***

And still—

if the stars don’t see me,

I’ll burn bright enough to blind them.

Let the void squint. Let galaxies twitch.

Let the sky remember what I cost.