I scorched the earth beneath my feet, torched bridges with a grin and beat. I danced in flames I struck myself, while love and reason screamed for help. I carved my shame in powdered lines, hid guilt in bottles, cloaked in lies. Each manic high a holy crown— until it cracked, and brought me down. I wrecked the home my hands had made, with every cruel word that I gave. I watched her cry behind the door, then cursed the echo, begged for more. I called that chaos art, not sin— a storm inside I let rush in. But truth be told, I was the tide, the quake, the match, the one who lied. And how I hate that version of me, the wrecking force, the absentee. Who blamed his mind, then bled the trust of all who dared to love his dust. I wore disease like armour plates, but it was choice that sealed their fates. And now I sift through shattered glass, the mirror cracked—my own damn hand. But here’s the shift, the quiet thread: I didn’t die. I rose instead. On shaking legs, with open wounds, I faced the dark I once called truth. I wrote remorse in quiet ways, in sober dawns and changed days. Each step a penance, raw and slow— but still, I walk, and still I grow. I’m not redeemed by words or grace, but in the work, the time, the space. In holding back when rage ignites, in choosing calm instead of flight. I’ll never fix what I destroyed— some damage sings a silent void. But I can build where ash once lay, and name that path my better way. I am not healed. I am not whole. But there's a compass in my soul. And every time I choose the light, I steal one inch back from the night. So let the past stand where it burned— a map of all the roads I’ve learned. Not proud, but honest. Not erased— just finally walking back with grace.