The Flames I Once Feared

They say there were only two destinations in life—

eternal heaven or unforgiving hell,

two doors waiting: one gilded, one ablaze,

like a tightrope between infinity and inferno,

and I was born already leaning toward the fire.

So, I held my breath,

clasped my hands,

and tiptoed the narrow line of righteousness—

praying my flaws wouldn’t spill from my soul.

Perfection became my religion,

but I—stubbornly, achingly human—

tripped over my own shadow,

bruised hearts with words I let slip,

and wept my remorse into silence,

hoping the skies would hear my repentance—

only to wake and do it again.

For a long time, death terrified me,

not because I didn’t want to leave,

but I feared that I’d land in hell—

the falling, the finale, the flames,

and the souls swallowed by fire, screaming their pain.

But the real tragedy isn’t death,

it’s fear that traps you in regrets,

forgetting to live while you’re still alive.

We obsess over what lies beyond

that we forget we’re still here—

breathing, breaking, becoming.

Death is not a monster,

but a whisper to sculpt art from rubble.

Death may be the finish line,

but in its hands is the torch of hope—

like a withered plant dropping seeds,

or the sun sinking so the stars can speak.

While I still live

in this messy, maddening middle—

I’ll search the small resurrections:

a long-lost apology finally given,

a resounding laugh breaking the long silence,

a dream daring to bloom again.

Wherever I end,

heaven or hell,

or something unnamed—

The fire no longer frightens me.

I live to burn brighter

than the flames I once feared.

Article: Hazel Ann Openiano

Illustration: Alyzza Marie Sales