To Set Fire

I do not write
to be admired.
I write
to be felt.
To be flung
like a spark
into the dry kindling
of your chest
and set something alight.

These words—
they are not delicate.
They are not polite.
They are not here
to sit quietly
on a page.

They are made to move you.
To pull you under
and push you through.
To strike the match
inside the parts of you
that forgot they were flammable.

I want you
to read something I’ve written
and gasp—
not because it is beautiful,
but because it is true.
Because it says the thing
you buried.
Because it dares to open
the door
you’ve been leaning against
for years.

I want my words
to climb into your bloodstream.
To whisper into your pulse.
To curl up behind your ribs
and rearrange the way
you hold your own story.

This is not performance.
This is prophecy.
This is pouring.
This is every wound I ever survived
turned into light
so you might see yourself
more clearly.

I write
because there are truths
we only speak
in ink.
Because if I say it
boldly enough,
maybe you’ll remember—
you were always meant
to burn this brightly.