2025-08-14-1
The heat is not here to burn you—
it does not hunger for your skin,
nor thirst for the salt of your tears.
It comes like a fierce old friend,
its breath a furnace wind,
its hands molten with truth.
It circles you slowly,
peeling away the painted masks,
the brittle scaffolds,
the cobweb words you mistook for vows.
Everything false blisters and curls—
the fear, the borrowed names,
the shadows you called home.
When the last lie drips into ash,
you will stand naked in the flame,
not consumed, but revealed,
and know yourself
by the shape of what could not burn.
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