02/14/2026
Loveeee this
In times of old, they burned bay leaves at dawn, scattered salt across doorways to keep the dark at bay, whispered to the coals: ππππ πππππ, ππππ πππππ. They knew February by its other name... hunger month, the gray gap between what was and what will be.
Now...
Now, we're supposed to scroll through catastrophe
with numb thumbs, let talking heads explain our dread
while our bones go cold in houses we can barely heat.
We're supposed to wait for spring like good girls wait for rescue,
shivering in the interval, making do with less.
But spring is a rumor still weeks away,
and I have never been good at waiting.
So today I light a candle... red, for my own blood's warmth... and hold my hands above the flame until I feel it, that old defiance rising like sap in a frozen tree. I say the words my grandmothers forgot to teach me: π°ππππ ππππ. π½πππ πππ. My fire. My life.
The wick bends and straightens in the draft.
Outside, February holds its breath.
Tell me: what do you burn when the world insists you freeze?
~ Baba
