When the top layer of the self
blows away like dust,
the mask we hold before the world
falls— and ruin becomes breath.

Pain enters as longing does—
quiet, insistent, deep,
aching along the nerves
and echoing through breath.

And when the dust settles,
the fire that remains
no longer burns outward—
it burns within to become.

For what breaks is only
what can no longer hold;
truth freed from the rubble
shapes what lies underneath.

The vessel ruptures open;
it cannot hold the rise—
the surge within, sharp and soft,
becoming the velvet dagger.