Burnt by My Own Matches

Burnt by My Own Matches

I struck the flame
with trembling hands,
thinking I could warm myself
without getting burned.

One little spark
for every promise,
one tiny flame
for every lie I told myself
was love.

I held them too close,
these matches of mine,
and watched the fire
crawl up my fingers
while I whispered,
just one more.

I knew the heat.
I knew the warning.
I knew the smoke
was filling up my lungs—
but sometimes hope
looks a lot like fire
If you’re standing in the dark.

So here I am,
charred at the edges,
still carrying ashes
where my trust used to be.

And I won’t blame the flame.
I won’t blame the night.
I won’t blame the hands
that struck the match.

Because sometimes
the hardest truth to swallow is

I was burnt by my own matches

But I am still here.

And perhaps tomorrow
I’ll learn to hold the light
without setting myself
on fire.