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.
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.