I will no longer apologise for being fiery.

I had come to know my fire much later in life. It began with a spark, and only burned brighter.

My fire was a blinding ray of light that had been amassing after many years of suppression.

No longer did I need to survive—it showed me that I could instead flourish.

I needn’t walk through trepidation.

I needn’t pace through life with my dented shield held high in the air.

My fire taught me it is safe to show my medals of honour—just as safe as treasuring them close to my heart.

I accepted my fire may burn out some days.

I even allowed it to simmer beneath my skin’s surface.

I remember its twinkle, alike to the star-lit sky on my darkest and coldest nights.

It was born inside of me to keep me warm on those nights, not anyone else.

This same fire within me—it drives me. It is the vibrant flame that moves my body in life to guide me toward illumination.

It exposes who I wish to be, and who I wish not to be, inside my life.

It is the same fire that has been my inner compass to direct me where I wish to go.

It was the spark of light I have nurtured toward my journey of safety.

My fire no longer lights the way toward another, who takes away the freedom for it to dance in its pit.

It no longer dims itself from outpouring its glow as brightly as it can.

My fire taught me my ability is one of strength and to never let it be mistaken as anything else.

My fire taught me to rise gracefully, as ashes fall that way too.

The same warmth of my heart that pumps the blood through my veins is not a weakness.

My fire taught me to detach from misidentifying my greatest attributes as frailty.

A flame begins as a fragile glow, and I have nurtured my fire on the days it is so.

I am not afraid of it.

I used my fire as a catalyst to acknowledge the parts within me that needed to heal. I honour my fire and continue to use it to work on them.

My fire taught me to no longer use silence for mere escapism but to instead speak my truth with passionate grace.

My fire flows through my body in sacred moments of pleasure, passion, and lust.

I will no longer fear them.

My fire lights the mirrors, burns down the veils, and rips off the masks.

My fire is the warm blanket in my moments of grief that surface with every new chapter as I leave the old ones behind.

It is the shapes, the stories, and the tales of bravery inside the smoke as I burn letters of good riddance.

I will never apologise for my fire.

My fire is a part of me.

~