What Fire Leaves

When everything burned,

I thought I’d lost myself.

But ashes are still proof

that something once lived here.

And from that ruin,

a smaller voice rose—

one that didn’t beg,

didn’t prove,

just breathed.

They say destruction

builds character.

Maybe.

But I think it builds truth—

the kind you can’t unlearn,

the kind that looks in the mirror

and still says,

“I am.”

If survival has a sound,

it’s not screaming.

It’s the whisper

you hear when you finally

stop running.