Under the sunlight, I am only a candle,
shaking in the arms of the slightest breeze.
It’s pretty—like youth they speak of in poems,
but it never lands the same on me.

Anger, comparison, insecurity—my heavy breath.
Tears and these headphones
are the only air I know how to breathe.

Loving myself—
harder than teaching fire to bow to the earth.
Gravity feels kinder than grace.

Yet in the caves where no one remembers the way,
I can still paint the dark in gold.
I can still make the cold feel warm.

I am needed.
I am loved.
Sometimes.

So tell me—
do I give my light to this moment,
spill every flame into the night,
or keep it sleeping in my chest,
fearing the day when morning arrives
with a sun too cruel to touch,
and a rain too tender to notice
when it drowns me?