Some call it bitterness. I call it boundaries forged in flame.
I’m tired of being the spark. The one dragging the half-asleep behind me, proving my worth to hands that only take.
I’m tired of being the first mover, the one who notices everything, patching the leaks in everyone else’s ship while mine sinks quietly beneath me.
When do I get to be chosen, not the one doing the choosing? When do I get to rest my heart without being accused of frost?
I’ve been the keeper of emotions, the manager of nervous systems, the quiet healer bleeding out behind the curtain. No more.
Now I listen when you tell me who you are— and I believe you. No more excuses. No more saving those who’d rather watch me burn.
If that makes me cold, then ice is my sanctuary. If that makes me hard, then hardness is holy.
So call me what you will. Call me distant, cruel, untouchable. I’ll be here — whole, breathing, alive in my own flame.
Let them call it cold. You know it’s clarity. And clarity burns.