Wreckage walk.

I tripped on the bones of bridges I burned,
Ash in my mouth from lessons unlearned.
The smoke was mine — I lit the flame,
Then cursed the sky for calling my name.

I left behind footprints in glass, not sand,
Trying to forget what I built with my hands.
Walls I raised turned into graves,
And I stumbled through echoes too proud to save.

The silence now is not peace, but debt,
Each quiet room a place I left
Without a word, or worse — too many.
Too loud. Too sharp. Too empty.

But I do not weep for what I broke —
I walk it. Barefoot. Through soot and smoke.
There’s strength in limping with eyes that see.
This wreckage?
It still belongs to me.