May 20
i burned what was brightest in me
with hands that knew no tremble
lit the match not in madness
but with the precision of purpose
not fate, not some cruel unseen hand
no storm but the one I summoned
the wind was mine
the tide was mine.
and the wreckage, yes
God help me, was mine too
i made an altar of myself
and laid upon it every soft thing
hope, kindness, the fragile trust
that others dared to place in me
i watched them catch fire
with a satisfaction that sickens me still
i wasnt broken by life
i broke myself
just to see if i could
and when i shattered
i called it art
but the worst
the worst is not the ruin I became
but the sails i cut from others skies
the quiet lives i warped
to mirror my storm
they called it love
i made it suffering
now i walk these ashes,
years deep and soul-thin
unable to sweep them clean
unable to start again
who loves the one
who devours the light
who saves the one
who insists on drowning
i see it now
and seeing is a curse of its own
not too late to hurt
too late to undo
with hands that knew no tremble
lit the match not in madness
but with the precision of purpose
not fate, not some cruel unseen hand
no storm but the one I summoned
the wind was mine
the tide was mine.
and the wreckage, yes
God help me, was mine too
i made an altar of myself
and laid upon it every soft thing
hope, kindness, the fragile trust
that others dared to place in me
i watched them catch fire
with a satisfaction that sickens me still
i wasnt broken by life
i broke myself
just to see if i could
and when i shattered
i called it art
but the worst
the worst is not the ruin I became
but the sails i cut from others skies
the quiet lives i warped
to mirror my storm
they called it love
i made it suffering
now i walk these ashes,
years deep and soul-thin
unable to sweep them clean
unable to start again
who loves the one
who devours the light
who saves the one
who insists on drowning
i see it now
and seeing is a curse of its own
not too late to hurt
too late to undo
Repentance, I've found, is not a clean wound.
It doesn't close the past or cauterize the guilt.
It's more like salt, poured in by my own hand, because I can't forget what I did.
And maybe I shouldn't. Certainly, I shouldn't...
I used to think remorse might erase the stain,
but memory has no mercy for good intentions that came too late.
The remembering is the punishment
and it makes the repenting hurt all the more,
because I'm not repenting what happened to me.
I'm repenting what I chose.
And I remember it all.
Some nights, I think that's the closest I'll come to justice:
to carry the echo of what I broke.
Not for pity.
Not for penance.
But because if I ever stop remembering,
then I haven't really changed.
And God knows I have to.
Even if no one waits at the other side.
It doesn't close the past or cauterize the guilt.
It's more like salt, poured in by my own hand, because I can't forget what I did.
And maybe I shouldn't. Certainly, I shouldn't...
I used to think remorse might erase the stain,
but memory has no mercy for good intentions that came too late.
The remembering is the punishment
and it makes the repenting hurt all the more,
because I'm not repenting what happened to me.
I'm repenting what I chose.
And I remember it all.
Some nights, I think that's the closest I'll come to justice:
to carry the echo of what I broke.
Not for pity.
Not for penance.
But because if I ever stop remembering,
then I haven't really changed.
And God knows I have to.
Even if no one waits at the other side.
