A Gentle Flame

Her eyes didn’t just look at me,

They accused me.
Sharp, unblinking,
like they were carrying my pain for me
because I was too tired to hold it anymore.

Her lips moved gently, almost lovingly,
but the words were soaked in anger.

“How could you forgive them?”

She turned her head away,
as if facing me meant facing everything I survived.
Her voice dropped, quieter now, broken at the edges.
“After all they did to you.”

I stepped closer.
Slow. Careful.
Like my past was glass scattered on the floor.
My hands rested on her shoulders,
they trembled under my touch.

“I know,” I said.
And my voice cracked,
because knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

“I remember the nights I begged myself to stay strong.
I remember being hurt
and convincing myself it was normal.
I remember shrinking
so others could feel bigger.”

I didn’t forgive them.
They don’t get that peace.

I forgave myself,
for not leaving sooner,
for loving people who taught me pain,
for thinking endurance was the same as worth.

The memories still come.
Uninvited. Merciless.
They pull me back into moments
where I was powerless,
where my voice didn’t matter,
where I learned how to survive instead of live.

Some days I relive it all in silence.
Some nights it steals my sleep.

For so long, I was a candle,
burning without pause,
melting for everyone who needed light,
watching myself disappear
and calling it love.

No one saw the wax on my skin.
No one asked how much it hurt to shine.

And when I was almost gone,
I realized, even light can be abused.

So I stopped setting myself on fire.
I kept what little flame I had left.
I turned it inward.

Now I am learning how to be gentle with myself.
Now I am learning that survival was never my purpose.

I am still glowing,
but this time,
I stay.

And for the first time, the light doesn’t cost me my soul.