A letter from the fire

You speak to me as if clothed in righteousness,
as if your lips have never tasted the poison of sin.
With eyes that pierce like daggers,
you declare yourself pure, untouched,
while my wounds are laid bare before you.

You dare to tell me what is wrong with me,
to spit your truths wrapped in venom,
as though we shared a past,
as though you knew the scars
that keep me awake in the silence of night.

But your words…
they do not break me —
they only fall like sparks
into the ashes of my broken world,
feeding a fire I have long learned to endure.
I watch the flames climb higher,
devouring what is weak in me,
and in the burning,
something else is born.

You cannot see it.
You cannot name it.
But your judgment is not my prison —
it is your own reflection
bleeding back at you.

Because tell me,
what voice dares to judge another
unless it has tasted the same sin in silence?
What hand points with such certainty
unless it trembles with its own secrets?

And so I write to you,
not to defend myself,
not to beg for mercy,
but to remind you:
the mirror you hold against me
is the one you fear to face.
Your words are chains you forged,
but they bind no one but you.

So speak —
condemn,
curse,
set my name in flames if you wish.
I will rise among the ashes,
while you, righteous one,
will drown in the weight
of your own reflection.