The Flicker & The Flame

A soft eulogy for the ones who almost rose.

You wanted out. I saw that.
You hated your shame — but you didn’t hate it enough to burn it off your skin.
You slept in it instead, curled up inside the same stale room that made you small in the first place.

I’ve never known how to do that. I break my own locks. I vanish for years if I have to.
I exile myself from the places that choke me. I carry my own keys, even when they cut my palms open.

I would’ve waited for you. I would’ve walked beside you through the door you were too afraid to kick down.
But the flicker in you stayed a flicker. And I can’t kneel beside ashes pretending they’re a fire.

Still — you taught me longing. You taught me the soft ache of wanting someone to run at your speed when they can barely stand.
You reminded me what I am: a woman who ruptures instead of rotting.

If you ever come back — come back on fire.
If not — I’ll still remember you for the spark you tried to protect.