She didn’t set fires to destroy.

She lit them to wake the sleeping things.

Old dreams buried under dust.

Walls too clean, too cold, too careful.

People called her dangerous.

They didn’t understand that some rooms

need to burn

before they can breathe.

She walked barefoot through fields of ash

and planted wildflowers in the soot.

Not everything was lost—

just what couldn’t carry the heat.

She whispered to the frightened,

offered them the match.

Not to hurt,

but to begin again.

This was her gift:

to find what had grown dull

and set it aglow.

To say,

you are not ruined—

you are raw,

you are open,

you are becoming.