The Constellation You Created

I was the quiet in your thunder, the calm you never saw break.

You held the storm with open hands but never asked what it could take.

I warned you in the shadows, whispered every shattered sign,

But you kept drawing constellations on a heart that wasn’t aligned.

You look at me now like a stranger, like the fault wasn’t yours too.

Every tremor that I carry was a gift you pulled me through.

Now you flinch when you see what I became in your sky—

Your brightest catastrophe, the star you thought would never die.

You gave me fire then recoiled when the blaze finally grew high.

Now you flinch when you see what I became in your sky.

You wanted light without the limit, warmth without the burn.

You traced your vows across my orbit then cursed the gravity in turn.

I learned to sharpen all my edges, made armor from every scar.

You taught me to be a weapon when you mistook me for a star.

You say you never meant to lose me, but you never chose me whole.

You loved the spark but feared the wildfire living in my soul.

Now you flinch when you see what I became in your sky—

Your brightest catastrophe, the star you thought would never die.

You gave me fire then recoiled when the blaze finally grew high.

Now you flinch when you see what I became in your sky.

Don’t pretend you didn’t light it or pretend you didn’t know.

Every wound you left inside me was the fuel that made me glow.

I’m not falling—I’m ascending, breaking out of your divide.

You only fear what you created when you look up and find—

You flinch when you see what I became in your sky.

I’m not your captive constellation, not your myth you can deny.

You thought I’d fade into the darkness, but I rose burning divine.

Now you flinch when you see what I became in your sky.