I light another candle,
its flame quivering,
like my breath
that catches between hope and loss.
The diagnosis sits heavy,
a word I can’t say without it
becoming the shape of me.
I find myself inside the cold glass
of this new name,
this new skin
that doesn’t fit right.
The wick burns slower now,
the scent of wax melting,
leaving traces of something
I thought I knew,
but can’t remember.
In the flicker,
I search for a reflection
that belongs to me.
Each shadow stretched
in the dim light
seems foreign,
a face I don’t recognize,
a body that doesn’t move
with the rhythm I once understood.
I keep lighting the candles—
one after another,
hoping for warmth,
for clarity
in the slow, steady burn.
But they flicker
and fade,
and I remain
in this quiet room,
half of me still waiting
to become whole.
