I Am The Fire

Where destruction becomes creation, and survival becomes art

Writing is how I exhale the pieces of myself I can’t carry quietly. It takes time... between work, life, dog, and all the little ghosts trailing behind me. If my words have found you, your support helps me build my career as a writer and keeps this heartbeat alive. 🖤

Support my writing with a paid subscription. If you can’t contribute monetarily right now, a simple subscribe means the world... just subscribing and being here is more support than you know... come on, you know you want to... 🖤

I was not born from silence,

but from the echo it left behind.

From a land that hums beneath the rubble,

where memory tastes of dust and honey,

and names bloom in the mouths of the mourning.

I have walked through grief’s unending corridors,

lit candles for ghosts that never learned to rest.

I have built altars out of broken things:

bone, breath, and the glittering shards of what was meant to poison me.

Still, I rise, ink-drunk,

burning prayers into paper until they sing.

My mind is a thousand open windows,

a storm of color and chaos and clarity.

The world arrives in fragments

too bright, too loud, too much

yet from that overflow, I weave constellations.

I write to order the storm,

to build meaning out of noise,

to prove that even the most fractured glass can catch the light.

I have carried both life and death in the same breath,

watched rage and grief hold hands

and call themselves truth.

I have been the wound and the healer,

the scream and the silence after.

And still

somehow

there is music.

You will find me in the threshold,

where grief grows teeth and still we call it art.

Where shadows are not villains but witnesses,

and healing is not light

it’s the courage to look into the dark and stay.

I write from the underworld of memory,

from the quiet ache that speaks when the world turns away.

Every poem is a pulse,

every story a resurrection,

a rebellion against forgetting.

If you listen closely,

you’ll hear the trembling between my lines

the sound of a girl becoming her own salvation,

of a woman who refused to disappear.

I do not write for perfection.

I write to survive.

I write because the fire in me demands translation,

because my hands still remember what it means to hold hope

even when it burns.

Welcome to the firelight

to the dark that does not devour but transforms.

Here, in the hush between heartbreak and hope,

I write what I cannot forget.

I write what I survived.

I write to stay alive.

I write from the shadows of my mind.

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Writing is how I exhale the pieces of myself I can’t carry quietly. It takes time... between work, life, dog, and all the little ghosts trailing behind me. If my words have found you, your support helps me build my career as a writer and keeps this heartbeat alive. 🖤

Support my writing with a paid subscription. If you can’t contribute monetarily right now, a simple subscribe means the world... just subscribing and being here is more support than you know... come on, you know you want to... 🖤

Thank you for being here.
For choosing to sit with work that isn’t polished for comfort, that doesn’t soften its teeth.
Your support lets me keep writing from the places that matter most… the honest ones, the heavy ones, the ones that ask to be witnessed rather than fixed.
This space exists because you chose it.
And I don’t take that lightly.
🖤