I am not a wildfire.
I was never meant to be loud.
I don’t tear through forests
or announce myself to the sky.
I exist in inches.
In seconds.
In the space between breath and doubt.
The world rushes past me—
heavy footsteps,
shadows leaning in,
air that presses too close.
And still,
I stay.
My flame bends.
My edge softens.
My body heats and scars
and darkens at the top—
but the center holds.
I do not need to be endless
to be real.
I do not need to blaze
to matter.
I flicker.
I hesitate.
I waver.
And I remain.
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