Poem: Striking With Wet Matches

I have tried to make myself brighter.

Smaller.
Prettier.
Easier.
Lighter to carry.

I have tried to smile through grief,
to soften my edges,
to perform my way into belonging.

I have tried to make friendships out of silence,
community out of distance,
warmth out of people who only offered me weather.

I struck match after match,
hoping for light.

But it was like trying to light a wet match.

The wood softened.
The head crumbled.
The spark hissed out before it could catch.

And I stood there,
again and again,
wondering what was wrong with my hands.

Nothing was wrong with my hands.

Some things are too damp with grief to burn.
Some rooms are too cold.
Some people do not know how to hold a flame.

That is not failure.

That is life sometimes.

So I will stop blaming myself
for the matches that would not light.

I will sit with the dark a little longer.
I will keep my hands warm.
I will wait for drier wood,
a softer wind,
a steadier spark.

Morning light still comes,
even when the fire does not.