I sift through the wreckage,
fingers brushing charred edges,
pulling out fragments
of what the fire left behind.

Some are sharp,
splinters that cut on contact.
Others collapse in my hands,
soft with soot,
once solid, now hollowed out.

This fire was not born of one spark.
I see my own missteps scattered here—
moments I ignored the smoke,
choices that poured fuel instead of water.
But I also see the hands of others,
striking matches, fanning flames.
No single villain,
no spotless hero—
just a circle of imperfect people
watching it all burn.

The silence after is louder than the fire.
It presses against my ribs,
settles in my lungs,
leaves me ash-choked and trembling.

Still, I gather what I can carry.
The pieces are heavy with grief,
stitched with blame,
but they also whisper of what might be.

And I sit among the ashes,
palms full of what broke,
and I begin—
not with fire or fury,
but with gentleness,
coaxing beauty from the ruins
the way new shoots rise
through softened earth.
on the edge of painful but hopeful,
there’s a fragile kind of light.
tender hope, bruised but unbroken,
because survival is its own kind of pretty.