When the Fire Remembered Me
There was a time
when the flame in me went quiet—
motherhood pressed its palm over my mouth,
trauma stitched my thighs shut,
birth tore me open
and left my desire wandering,
dazed, barefoot,
somewhere in the dark.
My body was supposed to be holy,
but it felt haunted.
Pleasure became a ghost
hovering just beyond reach,
watching me
but never touching.
I carried milk,
not hunger.
I carried sorrow,
not flame.
Postpartum carved out silence in me—
the kind that echoes.
But then
death walked into my life,
cold and bold as a fucking god
that never asks permission.
I looked into the eyes
of someone I loved
who would never look back again.
And in that moment
I felt something ancient move,
something primal,
something mine:
a scream of desire
ripping its way up my spine,
snarling,
“I want to live.”
The fire didn't return—
it erupted.
It tore through numb skin,
broke every old lock,
burned every quiet place
I thought I had to keep polite.
It poured out of me
like molten hunger,
lava running down my ribs,
between my thighs,
pooling at my feet—
a red, ruthless reminder
that I am not done.
That my body remembers
how to burn.
And now
every breath tastes like heat,
every touch feels like rebirth,
every moan is a resurrection.
Motherhood tried to quiet me.
Trauma tried to drown me.
Grief tried to bury me.
But fire…
fire never dies.
It waits.
It watches.
And when I was ready—
it devoured me back to life.