an unholy war within—
merging yet fighting, a quiet takeover.
keeping my favorites, discarding the rest.

God asks for all of me,
but I offer only pieces.
always looking back—
until I become Lot’s wife,
crystallized in the bitterness of my past.

picking and choosing,
but brokenness isn’t a choice—
it’s a consequence
of holding back.

I don’t know where to start,
where to try.
I thought I was climbing,
only to land back at the bottom.

wanting wildflowers,
but refusing to let go of the wine.
pouring it over fragile petals,
watching them wither instead of bloom.
I thought I was nourishing,
but I was drowning what needed water.