It begins, not with a storm—
but a whisper in the breeze,
a soft undoing of the knots
you didn’t know you tied.
They gave me your name like a family heirloom,
but never asked if it fit—
filled with your past,
but not your love.
I fold the memories like old toys,
hoping to give them
to whoever still cares.
There is pain, yes—
but quieter now.
A kind of ache that teaches
where love ends
and you begin.
This is the art:
not to serve,
but to surrender.
To walk away
with empty hands
and an open heart.
So let the name remain—
a ghost stitched into the hem
of who I was.
I wear it lighter now,
no longer mistaking it
for who I am.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 3:21 PM UTC
It begins, not with a storm—
but a whisper in the breeze,
a soft undoing of the knots
you didn’t know you tied.
They gave me your name like a family heirloom,
but never asked if it fit—
filled with your past,
but not your love.
I fold the memories like old toys,
hoping to give them
to whoever still cares.
There is pain, yes—
but quieter now.
A kind of ache that teaches
where love ends
and you begin.
This is the art:
not to serve,
but to surrender.
To walk away
with empty hands
and an open heart.
So let the name remain—
a ghost stitched into the hem
of who I was.
I wear it lighter now,
no longer mistaking it
for who I am.
Request permission to use this poem