I’ve grown a little older,
but not without splinters.
Not without nights where I bartered my worth
for a hit of approval,
a whisper of God,
a hand that didn’t shake
when it touched me.
I grew up in the shadows,
learning to read faces like maps—
trying to find home in someone else’s eyes
because I didn’t know how to live
inside my own skin.
I mistook silence for safety.
Pain for prophecy.
Love for anything that didn’t leave.
I folded myself into shapes that fit
the holes in other people.
I called it salvation.
I called it belonging.
But it was rot with perfume,
familiar like the cluttered rooms of my childhood—
loud with everything no one would say.
I searched in holy books,
pill bottles,
broken mouths,
and empty beds—
tried to baptize my wounds with anything
but myself.
And when I couldn't find love,
I tried to earn it.
Starve for it.
Bleed for it.
Be small and sweet and un-scary enough
to be worthy of it.
But all the while—
quiet as breath—
you were waiting.
The version of me I buried deep.
The one who knew how to sing
before the world taught her shame.
And now—
now I touch the mirror
like it’s a wound and a window.
And I whisper to the girl I was,
to the ghost still pacing the halls of my chest:
You are the unconditional love
you’ve been searching for your whole life.
And it was never in them.
Never in Him.
Never in hunger,
or hiding.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 1:45 AM UTC
I’ve grown a little older,
but not without splinters.
Not without nights where I bartered my worth
for a hit of approval,
a whisper of God,
a hand that didn’t shake
when it touched me.
I grew up in the shadows,
learning to read faces like maps—
trying to find home in someone else’s eyes
because I didn’t know how to live
inside my own skin.
I mistook silence for safety.
Pain for prophecy.
Love for anything that didn’t leave.
I folded myself into shapes that fit
the holes in other people.
I called it salvation.
I called it belonging.
But it was rot with perfume,
familiar like the cluttered rooms of my childhood—
loud with everything no one would say.
I searched in holy books,
pill bottles,
broken mouths,
and empty beds—
tried to baptize my wounds with anything
but myself.
And when I couldn't find love,
I tried to earn it.
Starve for it.
Bleed for it.
Be small and sweet and un-scary enough
to be worthy of it.
But all the while—
quiet as breath—
you were waiting.
The version of me I buried deep.
The one who knew how to sing
before the world taught her shame.
And now—
now I touch the mirror
like it’s a wound and a window.
And I whisper to the girl I was,
to the ghost still pacing the halls of my chest:
You are the unconditional love
you’ve been searching for your whole life.
And it was never in them.
Never in Him.
Never in hunger,
or hiding.