Fire and ash

They say the fire is over

Because the flames are gone

Because the walls still stand

Because the roof didn’t fall

They say I’m strong

Because i didn’t fall

But we had only just started living there

Boxes still half open

Corners still unfamiliar

My name barely resting

In the air of that room

Something inside me is always burning

Without heat

Without light

Just that dull, constant consumption

They call it resilience

I call it learning

How to live

In a body that smells like ash

I don’t cry about it

The tears feel unnecessary

Like pouring water

On something that already turned to dust

Instead

I sweep up pieces of myself

With steady hands

Stack them neatly

Label the box

“Salvaged”

And when people tell me

“I’m proud of how strong you are,”

I nod

Because strong things don’t collapse

They just hollow slowly

From the inside

And one day

When someone finally knocks

They’ll hear the echo

Before they ever hear me