The Tower

I thought you had rescued me
from my tower —
the one I’d waited in, silently,
believing someone like you
would climb the walls
and carry me home.

So I dared the edge,
jumped heart-first into fire,
believing your hands would catch
what your eyes promised.

I risked everything,
tore down walls built in blood and silence,
and still, I came to you —
bare, honest, burning.

You blinked,
called it friendship,
as if my love could be shelved
like a book you weren’t brave enough to read.

Then jealousy clawed at your pride
when you saw me choose a flame
that didn’t flicker
at the first sign of truth.

And so —
you ghosted.
Not a word. Not a goodbye.
Just silence,
where once there was heat.

But hear this,
if only in the echoes:

I was the storm you prayed for
and the calm you couldn’t handle.
You didn’t lose me to another man —
you lost me
to your own fear.

And I?
I rise again.

Now I look from my tower —
not the one that locked me from you,
but the one that built my strength
to contain me,
and keep me high
above your shadows,
your thorns,
your claws.