She lit the fuse herself

She held the match too long—
watched it burn to the fingertips
with eyes that never blinked,
convinced the fire would obey her.

Sent the spark
dressed as a message,
buttoned in send,
blind to the echo it would summon.

The detonation was quiet—
but God, the silence after
was louder than truth.

There was no enemy.
No plot.
Just the fragile grip of someone
too sure of her own innocence,
pulling the pin
with both hands.

And now—
she studies the wreckage
searching for someone else’s name
in the debris.

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