𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎

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My fists are storms I never throw,

a blaze I swallow, a war I know.

The fire claws, it begs to rise,

to rip the silence, to scorch the skies.

I grind my teeth until they bleed,

anger’s a language I never read. 

It hums in my bones, it splits my skin

 a drum so loud I can’t hold it in.

They call it reckless, call it wild,

but rage has raised me since I was a child. 

It’s not a temper, it’s not a game,

It's a furnace burning without a name.

And if I snap, I set it free,

the flames won’t ask—they’ll answer me.

The world will crumble, ash and stone,

and I'll stand inside the fire alone.

──── ୨୧ ────