I watched myself in the reflection of ashes,
a silhouette of everything I thought I was.
The person I used to be
naive, trusting, eager to give
smiled back,
a ghost of a life I no longer recognize.

I thought I was unbreakable,
but their words were hammers,
their silences were chisels,
and piece by piece,
they sculpted my doubt.
I thought I was enough,
until I saw my worth reduced
to scraps of convenience,
leftovers on a plate they never finished.

The ashes whispered truths
I was too afraid to hear:
You let them carve your name
into a space that was never meant for you.
You gave your light to those
who only wanted to stand in the shadow.

But I am not those ashes.
I am not the ruin of their hands.
I am the fire that created them,
the heat that could not be contained.
I am the one who walked out,
smoldering,
but whole.

Everything I thought I was
a servant to love,
a giver to the greedy,
a dreamer in a world of thieves
burned away in the flames they lit.

Now I see clearly.
I am not their illusion,
not their reflection.
I am mine.
And from these ashes,
I will rise into everything
I was always meant to be.