I was once the ember,
burning through flesh and thought,
a hollowed wick in a storm of needles,
lungs full of smoke that whispered lies.
I chased the mirage of silence—
a hush that never came,
a warmth that numbed,
but never healed.
They don’t tell you that oblivion has teeth.
That it gnaws slow, soft at first,
then ravenous, a beast that burrows deep,
swallowing your name, your days, your light.
I have worn the shroud of the lost,
sung the dirge of the forsaken.
I have carved escape routes into my skin,
only to find them dead-ended,
each path leading back to the ruin of me.
But let me tell you something,
you who tremble in the hollow dark,
you who mistake the echo of suffering for eternity—
pain is not the marrow of you.
It is not your inheritance.
It is not your forever.
I have been the ghost clawing at the veil,
and I have walked through.
I have learned that fire does not only destroy—
it forges.
That suffering is not the end—
it is the crucible.
And so I stand,
a monument of scars,
a lighthouse built from wreckage,
burning with the light of survival.
I do not shine for myself alone.
I shine for you,
for every soul who stumbles blind
through the labyrinth of their own ruin.
You are not meant to be consumed by this.
You are meant to rise,
forged, not broken,
whole, not hollow.
And when you do,
when you take your first breath in the sun,
I will be waiting—
not as a savior,
but as a testament.
