Her heart is a messy drum,
her hands shaking, spilling,
clutching at shadows,
clutching at smoke,
clutching at the fire she thought she could give away.
She forgets herself.
She forgets the weight of her own bones,
the trembling need of her own chest.
Her love-her raging, fierce, bloody love-
tossed like coins into a wishing well
that never answers.
And oh, the ache-
it curls in her stomach, coils in her throat,
and she realizes:
she’s been chasing herself
through him,
through his absence,
through her own blind devotion.
She is raw. She is torn.
She is fire spilling on cold stone,
a spark she didn’t see was hers to begin with.
She gathers herself, trembling,
picks up the pieces she scattered,
the worth she buried,
the love she forgot.
She burns now for herself,
she grows now from herself,
she holds her own hands and feels-finally-
her own heartbeat,
her own fire,
her own soul.
No more chasing, no more falling,
she is her own storm,
her own shadow,
her own blazing, unstoppable light
