i want to return to nothing;
not in the way people mean when they say they're tired,
but in the way you ache to unlearn being watched.
not erased, but unclaimed.
like a torn-up field after the storm has passed through and taken the wires with it.
you thought prayer was whatever people said on their knees.
i learned it was whatever you whisper to survive the room when standing would cost too much;
until the repetition sounds like choice;
until choice validates self-blasphemy;
until self-blasphemy feels safer than someone mistaking that posture for love,
and stillness for consent.
i remember learning which gods don't answer back.
i remember the floor better than i remember your face.
you say you have loved me every day since,
as if love is something that doesn't have to be held accountable for what it does to a body.
i don't recognize myself in your language.
angels don't have nervous systems.
angels don't learn fear by repetition.
angels don't grow up and discover that what they mistook for being cherished was actually being contained.
you loved the idea that i stayed.
you loved that i didn't know how to leave yet.
you say you don't foresee a future where you stop loving me.
that makes sense when loving a still image doesn't require repentance.
it doesn't ask you to account for what happened when faith felt like fear
and i let you be god-shaped in my mouth.
you call me a tempest like i made you feel alive;
like the shaking in my hands was love;
like the sound of me breaking was proof god was speaking to you;
as if storms kneel for anyone once they learn that leaving tastes better than false divinity.
you call me pure.
but i am not divine because i endured you.
i am divine because nothing you remember is accurate anymore.
love the ruin.
i am elsewhere.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:53 PM UTC
i want to return to nothing;
not in the way people mean when they say they're tired,
but in the way you ache to unlearn being watched.
not erased, but unclaimed.
like a torn-up field after the storm has passed through and taken the wires with it.
you thought prayer was whatever people said on their knees.
i learned it was whatever you whisper to survive the room when standing would cost too much;
until the repetition sounds like choice;
until choice validates self-blasphemy;
until self-blasphemy feels safer than someone mistaking that posture for love,
and stillness for consent.
i remember learning which gods don't answer back.
i remember the floor better than i remember your face.
you say you have loved me every day since,
as if love is something that doesn't have to be held accountable for what it does to a body.
i don't recognize myself in your language.
angels don't have nervous systems.
angels don't learn fear by repetition.
angels don't grow up and discover that what they mistook for being cherished was actually being contained.
you loved the idea that i stayed.
you loved that i didn't know how to leave yet.
you say you don't foresee a future where you stop loving me.
that makes sense when loving a still image doesn't require repentance.
it doesn't ask you to account for what happened when faith felt like fear
and i let you be god-shaped in my mouth.
you call me a tempest like i made you feel alive;
like the shaking in my hands was love;
like the sound of me breaking was proof god was speaking to you;
as if storms kneel for anyone once they learn that leaving tastes better than false divinity.
you call me pure.
but i am not divine because i endured you.
i am divine because nothing you remember is accurate anymore.
love the ruin.
i am elsewhere.
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