I caught a glimpse of myself
in a plate-glass window,
smeared with city grime,
cracked like it had seen too much.

The figure looked ghostly—
scorched edges,
hollow middle,
scraped clean by invisible fires.

No light in the eyes.
Only the burnt remains
of something that used to feel.

The reflection didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
It just watched—
knowing every silence,
every piece of myself
I bartered away to survive.

This is suffering turned inward:
not scars on skin,
but cinders inside.

Still, the figure stood—
broken,
blackened,
but upright.

—JON.E.B. | Scorched