I once burned everything
not to destroy, but because I didn’t know any other way to survive.
There were days when my chest was all fire,
and I set the world ablaze just to keep myself warm.
I was angry.
Angry at memories, at unfinished promises,
at something I should’ve protected but let slip away.
I was angry because I cared too deeply,
and I didn’t know how to stop.
But somewhere inside the flames,
I found quiet.
Not the empty kind,
but the kind that slowly rinses the wound,
that teaches that not every battle must be won,
some are meant to be released.
And now I sit in the same field
where the fire once rose highest.
But this time, I am not holding gasoline.
I am simply listening.
The echo is still here.
The echo of something that once mattered so deeply
it left its shape inside my chest.
I no longer try to silence it.
I let it play—softly—
like the last song that remains
even after everything has ended.
