FIRE•ASHES•SCARS

Love is easy.
At least, the feeling of it is.
That's what I thought.
But I was wrong.
Love begins like fire.
Warm. Beautiful. Necessary.
It spreads without permission, consuming everything in its path until there is nothing left to burn.
People romanticize that kind of love
the kind that burns bright enough to hurt.
But wildfires do not care what they destroy.
When the flames finally die, they leave behind ashes.
Not soft ashes. Not harmless ones.
Ashes that stain fingertips.
Ashes that cling to skin.
Ashes that follow you long after the fire is gone.
And beneath those ashes are cracks.
Cracks in the earth.
Cracks in trust.
Cracks in the hidden parts of ourselves we once believed were unbreakable.
Those cracks become scars.
Scars remember.
Even when the pain fades, scars remember the heat.
They ache at the sight of warmth because warmth reminds them of the fire that made them.
Had I known that surviving the fire was harder than letting it burn, I would have chosen the flames over what remains.