The darkness hands me a matchbox

The darkness hands me

a matchbox.

It wrapped me in blur

long ago.

I sit with my chest open,

fingers trembling,

searching for a stick inside.

That matchbox once held

my heart steady—

like blood inside veins.

I shouted,

I screamed,

begging for a light,

afraid the night

would crush my soul

into tears.

Then slowly,

my breath touches

a lone stick in my pocket.

The gloom softens—

fading, quietly—

by the small flame

of the match

that’s been living

inside me

all along.