Charity Whan

Wait in the Fire

 

i never leave the burning.
it’s warmer than stillness,
at least here
i can feel something.

​

ash collects in my collarbones.
i call it memory.
call it love
when it’s really just
staying put
in a place that never asks me to.

​

no one calls me out of it.
no arms stretch through the smoke.
i keep waiting.
for rescue, i suppose
or maybe just for proof
that someone sees.

​

it’s not even about return anymore.
it’s ritual.
the way some pray,
or drink,
or trace the outline
of an old scar
to remember how it felt
before it healed wrong.

​

still, i stay.
still, i burn.
and every time i think of walking away,
i wonder the woman i would be

if i stopped waiting in the fire.