I used to believe my light meant something.
Not the brightest, not the boldest—
but warm enough to be missed if it vanished.
I offered it gently,
held it out for them—
hoping they might find their way.
A help no one asked for.
They took what they needed,
then judged my kindness.
They called my reaching weak, my giving foolish.
They misunderstood me—so fully, so often—
that I stopped explaining.
Now, I keep it to myself.
A flicker in a jar,
hidden beneath tired ribs.
It doesn't shine for the world anymore.
It doesn't need to perform.
It does not burn to prove a point.
It is enough—
just enough to remind me I exist.
A small pulse that says: I'm still here.
I am still alive.