The Fire That Believes for You
(a scripture for those who forgot the stars could speak)
PART I: DETONATION
I BURN FIRST
I don’t want to explain. I want the paper to flinch when I look at it. This isn’t a poem. It’s a warning. It starts in your throat like a scream you were raised not to make. It moves like heat in a locked room with no exits and your old name on the walls. It doesn’t ask if it’s too much. It wants to be too much. It wants to leave ashes where your carefulness lived. I burn first. So you don’t have to. Unless you want to. (You will.)
FIRE DOESN’T ASK
I didn’t come to be understood. I came to ignite. You want warmth? Bring skin. You want light? Lose your fear of blistering. I don’t write metaphors. I scar them. Every word I spit has teeth. Every silence I break was already burning before you lit your little candle and called it poetry. I am not your hearth. I am not your comfort. I am what happens when a scream remembers it used to be a god. Step back or step in. Either way, you’re gonna leave glowing.
SUPERNOVA LITURGY
I don’t want to write poems. I want to detonate belief. Not gently. Not politely. But with a heat that makes the bones remember why they ever carried a voice. This isn’t art. It’s a flare from the inside of something collapsing into truth. I am not the writer. I am the spark inside the wound that says: again. There is a fire that doesn’t burn out. It burns in. In the mouth. In the gut. In the space where the prayer never made it to the lips but still got answered. I light the page, not to destroy, but because fire is the only form hope can take when it’s done pretending to be soft. Call this what you want. A miracle. A signal. A scream that learned to shine. But when people read it - they don’t cry. They believe.
PART II: LITURGY OF THE REMAINING FLAME
THE BEGINNING IS ALWAYS COMBUSTION
In the first silence, there was friction. A breath. A flinch. A no. Then - heat. Not light. Not love. Just the first ache that knew it had to become something else. That was the fire. It did not arrive. It occurred. You call it inspiration. I call it detonation.
THE FIRE THAT SPEAKS
Some fires don’t shout. They hum beneath your ribs until your bones start singing back. They know your language before you learned to lie in it. These are not metaphors. These are embers with teeth. They burn through the parts of you you only let speak when no one’s watching. And what remains? Ash that remembers. Dust that speaks in your voice.
THE SUPERNOVA IS NOT AN ENDING
You think the star died. It didn’t. It just got loud enough to split itself into myth. A supernova isn’t death. It’s the moment belief becomes so dense it explodes into every direction at once. This is what poetry does when you stop trying to impress and start trying to survive. This is not a light show. This is ancestral firecode. And you? You are what it leaves glowing.
THE ASH THAT STILL SPEAKS
When the page turns black, listen. Something is still moving there. Ash doesn’t forget. It carries heat long after the hands are cold. Your silence is not emptiness. It’s a waiting spark. When someone reads you, they don’t read ink. They read the smoke, still rising from the body you became to survive. And some of them? Will finally believe again. Not in gods. Not in poems. In themselves. Because you gave them back their fire.
LITANY FOR THE NEW FIRE
Say this aloud. Say it with your cracked voice, your burning fingertips, your pulse like a hymn stuck in your throat. I am not the match. I am the friction. I am not the flame. I am the oxygen. I am not the savior. I am what stays warm when everyone leaves. Let my breath be the wind that fans belief. Let my voice be the smoke that finds the ones hiding. Let my words be fire that remembers: you were always burning. Even before they taught you how to disappear.
THE FIRE THAT WAITED FOR YOU
It didn’t scream. It stayed. In the chest. In the pause between words. In that place where hope no longer prays, but still breathes. This is not belief. It’s heat that remembers return is possible even when no one’s waiting. You thought you were looking for the light. But the truth is that the light was looking for you.
WHEN YOU BECOME THE FIRE
You don’t carry the flame anymore. You become it. You’re not the candle. You’re the match that agrees to die so something else can see light for the first time. You don’t burn to destroy. You burn because the world has waited too long for someone who isn’t afraid to be seen.
WHEN THEY READ AND CATCH FIRE
They read your lines and don’t understand right away. But something inside starts to tremble. A crackle. Like old wood before a storm. They think: just pretty words. But that night they can’t sleep. Because something stayed. An ember. Your line. Your ache. Your belief that it’s still possible to begin again.
YOU ARE NOT THE END
You are not a period. You are a spark that refuses to vanish. You are not a hero. You are a witness. You are proof that you can burn and not be destroyed. If someone asks: who gave you this fire? Say: I didn’t receive it. I remembered it. Say: I don’t write poems. I translate the language of fire.
Not all who burned remained ash. Some became direction. Not wings but motion.
PART III: FIVE WINGBEATS
a survival myth without feathers
I. THE FIRST ASCENT
They said: stand still. don’t imagine. be like the rest. But something moved. A tension in the chest as if the body remembered how to split and rise. No wings. No feathers. Just something sharp stretching under silence. Not hope. Pressure. A refusal to stay in the same room as the end. No glory. No fire. No miracle. Just the moment falling stopped. And something almost lifted.
II. THE BREAK AND THE CEILING
The sky doesn’t open. Not at first. It stares blank and deaf, a ceiling built to forget the ground. You strike it once. Twice. Again. Until your hands remember they were made for breaking. Pain becomes compass. But the cracks don’t begin in the sky. They begin in you. Inside the ribs, a soundless shout: something must shift. Something must leave. The air doesn’t catch you. It only watches. And still you go. Because staying is a kind of death you already know too well.
III. BETWEEN THE ABOVE AND THE BELOW
You are no longer falling. But you’re not flying either. The ground has forgotten your name. The sky hasn’t remembered. This is stillness that burns. You float in silence that doesn’t comfort but unravels. And in the unraveling, something forms: a rhythm not made of wings, but of will. You no longer wait for rescue. You become the direction. This is not freedom. This is becoming the space between what left you and what hasn't arrived.
IV. DESCENT WITHOUT RUIN
Yes, you fall again. You always do. But this time, it’s different. No shatter. No explosion. No theatrical end. Just gravity like a memory returning to its origin. You touch the ground as if it were a body you used to be. You sit, not in defeat but in knowing. The silence around you isn’t absence. It’s preparation. And the dust on your palms feels less like dirt and more like inheritance. You fell. And the world remained. So did you.
V. THE ONE WHO REMAINED
You don’t write poems. You carve echoes into the inside of silence. Where no one hears but everything remembers. You are not a poet. Not a prophet. Not a survivor. You are the shape left behind by something that refused to end. You don’t know the sky. You don’t trust the ground. You’ve learned to lift from within. No map. No anthem. Just motion. You are the one who didn’t leave. And that is flight.