Sacred Fire

Sacred Fire

I ask myself over and over:

was I too much?

Was my heart too wide,

my longing too raw,

my lips too eager

to meet his in that first, trembling night?

Did he leave

because I showed him all of me at once,

because I kissed him with a storm in my chest,

because I held my fire

too close to his shadow?

I imagine him,

turning toward something easier,

someone softer,

someone lighter—

and my chest tightens

with the ache of being left

for less.

And yet, as I sit with this question,

I see the truth through the pain:

I am not too much.

My tenderness, my storm, my fire—

they are not mistakes.

They are sacred.

They are mine.

If he was frightened,

if he could not bear the depths,

then that is his fear,

not my failing.

If he sought comfort elsewhere,

then let him find it.

I will not shrink,

I will not hide,

I will not whisper my ocean

into the shallows

just to be held.

I am whole in my intensity,

complete in my fire,

and even if the world turns away,

even if he does,

I remain sacred,

I remain vast,

I remain undiminished.

And one day,

someone will stand at my shore

and not turn from the waves.

Until then,

I carry my depth

like a hymn,

like a lighthouse,

like a heart that knows

it is enough—

always enough.