Yesterday’s Fire

Yesterday’s Fire

Yesterday’s fire is today’s ashes,

a cold grey hush where the heat once screamed.

Smoke is memory that won’t rise,

just settles in my throat when I try to speak.

I breathe in the burn of what I can’t fix.

Today’s tear slips from a wound I reopen,

a mistake I make,

again,

again,

as if pain were prayer

and I forgot how to kneel without bleeding.

I write apologies in dust,

but no one reads them.

Not even the ghosts I keep close.

They’ve learned to turn away

when I reach out with shaking hands.

Every silence is a mirror.

Every mirror, a cracked truth:

I knew the match was lit

and still I stayed.

Yesterday’s fire is today’s ashes,

a cold grey hush where the heat once screamed.

Today’s tear slips from a wound I reopen,

a mistake I make,

again,

again,

as if pain were a ritual I forgot to question.