Healing isn’t aesthetic.
Some storms deserve to be named after exes.
I lit sage and rage in the same breath.
It didn’t cleanse the pain, it clarified me.

Smoke curls like old memories, thick and unresolved.
I tried to burn away what I couldn’t say out loud.
But some fires don’t die with ashes on the floor,
They live quiet, waiting to burn.

Sage in one hand, rage in the other,
Healing isn’t pretty, or clean, or polite,
It’s fire and smoke and the darkest night.
I’m learning to breathe while I burn, and believe.

The Blunt Siren