I carry a furnace where my ribs should be,
a riot of embers whispering your name.
Not soft—never soft—
this is the kind of fire that eats its own smoke
and calls it breath.
My pulse is a drum of sparks,
each beat a rebellion against silence.
I was not made for quiet rooms
or lukewarm hearts—
I was carved from lightning that refused the sky.
Touch me and you’ll learn—
I don’t burn like a candle,
I burn like a city
that chose not to be saved.
There are ghosts in my flame,
old versions of me that tried to be gentle,
that tried to be small enough
to fit inside someone else's peace.
They are ash now. Necessary ash.
What remains is hunger.
Bright. Unapologetic. Endless.
And if I love—
I love like a wildfire crossing borders,
like heat cracking the bones of winter,
like something ancient finally remembering
it was never meant to be contained.
