Triptych: Wax Control/Glass Discipline/Combustion Lesson.

I. Wax Control

They said it was about order.

That beauty could be shaped

if the substance was willing.

So you lay back.

You let them heat you—

not violently,

but with devotion.

Slow melting,

as in a chapel,

or a salon.

They praised you

for how well you took it.

Not screaming,

only flinching.

Your stillness mistaken

for consent.

But inside,

you burned.

The wax stiffened afterward,

cooled into masks

you wore without mirrors.

One for the office.

One for the night.

One for the lover

who asked only

for obedience.

You learned how to maintain.

To adjust the flame

just enough to soften

but never scorch.

To drip,

deliberately—

making small offerings

of yourself

in the name of elegance.

In time,

you forgot your original shape.

What you looked like

unpoured.

They call that control.

But wax remembers fire.

Even now,

you sense it—

somewhere deep,

just beneath the polish—

the part of you

that wants to melt

for no one.

II. Glass Discipline

They told you to be clear.

Not pure—

transparent.

To hold without spilling.

To show everything

but never touch.

So you became vessel.

Delicate.

Functional.

Proud of your shine.

You learned silence

was a kind of strength—

the quiet gleam

of a body

that reflects

but does not absorb.

People admired you.

They called you poised.

Measured.

Untouched.

But that was the danger.

The clean edge.

The soundless crack

that begins at the base

and works its way up,

invisible

until it splits.

You were not built

to endure pressure.

Only to look beautiful

while holding what belonged

to others.

Now, even breath

feels like a threat.

Even joy

too sudden,

too loud.

You want to scream—

but you would rather

shatter.

At least then,

they would know

you were never

unbreakable.

III. Combustion Lesson

You think of fire

as the enemy.

Destruction.

A red-lunged hunger

you were taught

to fear.

But some things

are meant to burn.

The letter you never sent.

The shirt he left behind.

The version of you

that kept saying yes

when she meant

nothing at all.

You mistake endurance

for virtue.

But staying whole

is not the same

as staying alive.

What if you lit the match

yourself?

What if you stood in the center

of your own heat,

not screaming,

but singing?

Not wild,

but exact—

like the wick,

knowing its job

is to vanish.

You were made for this:

to ignite,

to illuminate.

To give off

a brief,

necessary

light.

Afterwards—

not ruin,

but ash.

Which is to say:

what’s left

once the fuel

has told the truth.

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