Too much, yet never enough

It is a beautiful kind of agony to burn this brightly.

No one has ever quite known what to do with me—

with the fire, the fury, the unrelenting pulse of something vast and untamed beneath my skin.

I am too much, too wild, too alive for those who have only ever known embers.

And yet, I refuse to dim. Only now do I see the magic in my own untethered blaze.

But if I claimed it wasn’t lonely, I would be lying.

My heart is a thing that howls—aching to pour itself out, to be met with hands that can hold its weight.

But passion, in its rawest form, is unwieldy.

Most have never learned how to cradle a flame without fearing the burn.

So when a wild thing stands at their doorstep, grinning with fire-lit eyes and an unguarded heart,

they hesitate.

They long to invite it in, but it is both intoxicating and terrifying—

a storm they do not know how to weather.

And oh, how that only fuels the fire.

On the worst days, it settles into an ache—a solitude too vast to name.

On the best days, it is brilliant, boundless, painting tomorrow with every color of the sun.

What does one do with a soul this fierce?

Is it meant to be a fleeting comet—searing through the sky, dazzling for a moment,

only to leave the world a little more awake in its wake?