I burned through the layers. What’s left is bare. Too soft to carry, too sharp to wear. I don’t beg the light. I don’t chase the bloom. I press one hand to the hollow, to see what moves. It’s shell. It’s stone. It’s soil that forgot how to speak on its own. But I stay here still. No asking, no plea. If something returns, let it speak With me. I scorched the path to keep from turning. Not out of rage just tired of yearning. The fire was truth, the smoke was grace. But even now, there’s a weight in the place. This isn’t surrender. It’s not defeat. It’s what’s left when you stop needing to repeat. So I stay. And I breathe. And I give it back to the roots beneath The roots beneath. If something rises Let it speak through me.
