The Fire I Keep Feeding

I want love—

I swear I do.

The soft kind,

the kind that holds

instead of haunts.

But every time it knocks,

I flinch,

as if kindness is a weapon

I don’t know how to survive.

I dress my wounds

before they bleed,

run from warm hands

and crash into the cold,

again,

again,

as if I’m wired

to break my own heart

before someone else can try.

I tell myself

this is the last time.

I light a candle,

promise change,

write vows to myself

in the dark.

But morning comes,

and I’m already knee-deep

in the same ash

I swore I’d leave behind.

It's not always the bruise

you can see.

Sometimes it’s the silence

that deafens,

the look in the mirror

when I can’t meet my own eyes.

Sometimes it’s the voice

that whispers

I don’t deserve this,

when “this”

is peace.

I am an arsonist

of my own becoming.

Burning down bridges

before I can cross,

then crying

over the smoke.

I know the path out—

I do.

But it winds

through memories

that ache like thorns,

and every step forward

feels like betrayal

to the broken girl

I keep protecting.

Still,

I crave.

Still,

I try.

Even when I fall

back into the flame,

I gather my pieces

and whisper,

“Next time,

maybe I’ll stay whole.”