I prayed for you in my thunder

Don’t mistake my silence
for surrender.
Some storms do not rattle the shutters
they light the trees from the inside
and wait for nightfall
to reveal their work.

You saw me still
and thought I’d gone to sleep,
thought I’d folded myself
into someone else’s shadow
but I was only gathering sparks,
stitching flint into my breath,
teaching the wind
how to say my name in flame.

You gave the best of you

to open mouths that forgot how to taste,

to hands that only know how to take.

I watched

not out of jealousy,

but out of the sheer awe

of how freely you wasted

what others prayed for.

You wanted a mirror

that didn’t talk back.

I am not that.

I am the smoke rising

when the wrong ones

try to carry me like a secret.

I do not go quietly.

I do not dim for comfort.

I am made of the parts

you couldn’t hold—

the too-much,

the too-honest,

the too-unapologetic ash

you wiped off your collar

before stepping into a room

that couldn’t stomach

the scent of realness.

I offered you roots,

you wanted ribbons.

I brought stormwater in a sacred jar,

you wanted a filtered spring

that never dared flood.

But I am the one

who burned and walked out glowing.

The one who danced barefoot

on the coals of what I used to beg for.

I am not an echo.

I am thunder

choosing when to strike.

You won’t find me

in the shallow light anymore.

I’ve become something

you cannot hold,

cannot name

without tasting copper

and regret.

Let the next ask for less.

Let them bow to your comfort.

But never again

will I set myself on fire

just to light the path

you refuse to walk.

I have become

the wildfire's daughter,

and I no longer wait

to be chosen

by someone who flinched

at my first spark.