i’m building a small fire in my own palm
and asking everyone why they’re running from the smoke
i tell myself the burn’s just proof that i can still feel warmth
that if i turn my flesh into ash
there’ll finally be nothing left for them to break
the voices in my head are wearing the faces of people i loved
they’re standing in a ring around me
telling me that my hands have always been too heavy to hold
and maybe they’re right
maybe my body’s just a house made of bad timber
meant to collapse under the weight of its own roof
i want to open my chest and hand you the jagged pieces
to show you how much it hurts to stay inside this skin
i want to run until my knees give out
until the night swallowing me feels kinder than waking up tomorrow
i’m so tired of fighting the person in the mirror
so tired of begging my own heart to keep beating when all it wants is peace
please don’t look away from me while i’m unraveling
i’m not trying to ruin everything i touch
i’m just a child lost in a room with no light
holding a match and waiting for someone to come save me from the dark
learning to live means dropping the embers before they consume you
it means letting the morning light arrive without asking if you earned it
your lungs don’t need a reason to keep reaching for air
and your hands were made for gentle things, starting with yourself
—lyra moon (survival isn’t the reward for enduring the fire, it’s the refusal to become the spark)
august 6, 2026