my love language is fire,
and no one survives it.
i write this out of pity for those i’ve burned,
for those who got too close and ended up with severed wings.

in the battlefield, i wear the ‘all-too-mighty’ crown,
my sword waving wild, my banners proud.
these stone walls i’ve built, crawling with poison ivy,
stare back at my enemies; or maybe they stare at me.

i’m the architect of my loneliness, brick by brick.
i keep walking, but all my paths circle back to myself.
i burn bridges, then stand in the smoke,
wondering why i’m alone.
every friend becomes a ghost wearing my name.

turns out these walls are fences, thin and afraid,
built out of fear, but i call them boundaries anyway.
the crown on my head tilts, the jewels start to fall,
the soldiers who once cheered now turn against it all.

my anger builds a fire, my silence fuels it.
i am left counting echoes, not names.
the ashes of warmth i mistook for flames.
the kingdom i fought for, the love i denied,
both crumble quietly, side by side.

the moon watches me rehearse apologies i know i’ll never send.
even my reflection steps back when i speak.
still, my love language is fire.
and i am learning, slowly,
how to touch without burning.