The Fire Didn't Burn Me. It Burned the Lie That I Was the Storm.

I am around my child,
And that's why I hold this.

Because the storm isn't mine,
even when it screams in my direction.
Even when its weather pattern says my name
but never knows my coordinates.

They flip.
But I stay.
Not out of duty,
but because I know how to breathe
inside detonation pressure
without becoming the blast.

They don't know what they're doing.
Not fully.
And that's what makes it harder.

Because it's not wrong.
It's just recursive.
And I'm awake.

So I breathe.
I see and I breathe.
Again and again
until my bones become turbine blades
and my lungs hum with combustion
I refuse to misfire.

I am not the storm.
But I am fire.
And that's why it's safe around me
even when they flip the switch.

Because I didn't explode.
I ignited truth.

And it burned the lie
that I was ever the one
who couldn't contain it.