The Girl with the Flame in Her Chest by Brittney
She was born during a thunderstorm.
Not the kind people run from —
but the kind the sky cries through, as if mourning before the battle begins.
From the moment she opened her eyes,
she had something burning inside her.
A tiny flame — sacred, bright —
flickering in her chest, even when the world tried to smother it with silence, shame, and sharp words.
She lived in a house made of ice —
cold glances, frozen hugs, conversations that crackled and shattered on the floor.
They told her to “be quiet,” to “stay small,”
but her flame? It hummed. It grew. It refused.
They called it rebellion.
They called it being “too much,” “too sensitive,” “too dramatic.”
But it was never too much.
It was purpose. It was destiny.
Her curse?
She kept trying to hand them the light —
to warm the very ones who chilled her bones.
She held her flame out like a gift
but they only burned her for it.
So, one day…
she stopped shrinking to fit their shadows.
She built a cathedral from the ashes of her pain,
lit it with the fire in her chest,
and became the lighthouse she always needed.
Not everyone can carry fire and survive.
But she did.
Because the curse wasn’t the fire.
The curse was being born into people who feared it.





























































