I Do Not Apologise for the Fire

What does my face remember that others have forgotten? In the mirror, I see evidence. A life. The soft erosion of time doing its slow, inevitable work, not as a thief but a sculptor. A kindness, really, that we are shaped by our days.

People speak of youth as though it's currency, as though it can be sought or spent. I think it’s more like weather. Some days it drapes itself over me without effort. Other days, I feel its absence like an echo in a bare room. Same principles apply to beauty, I suppose. But neither defines me. I no longer confuse admiration for affection, or attention for understanding.

I have grown into this face the way a tree grows into its bark—without permission, but with quiet purpose. The lines that will come are already whispering beneath the surface. I am not afraid of them. Let them speak when it’s time. They will say I endured — they will say I evolved.

I no longer need to be seen to feel real. I carry myself with the knowledge that the soul casts its own kind of light, subtle but unwavering, and those who know how to look will find it.

Not everything luminous is loud.

I do not apologise for the fire. I tend it. I own the match. I wear the smoke like perfume.