Arsonist.

Blame became the flames

that ravaged my reason,

and I—the arsonist of my own undoing.

My self-worth burned to the ground

under accusations I refused to release.

I wore my pain like armour,

mistaking survival for strength.

But denial is not protection—

it is delay.

No bullet, no punishment, no external force

could penetrate what I refused to face.

So I stood there—

watching everything collapse

under the weight of my own avoidance.

Until finally—

I stopped pointing outward.

And turned inward

with the same intensity I once used to destroy.

Now—

I remove the bandages

instead of hiding the wound.

I learn to love what I once resented.

Because healing does not come

from pretending it didn’t hurt—

it comes from refusing to abandon yourself again.