The Wildflower Vow
by Shani Barnard
He said he loved me,
and I wore those words like a necklace—
tight enough to bruise,
too pretty to take off.
I was the cathedral.
He lit one candle and left,
while I burned down to the ground—
like a string unravelled
from the hem of my own devotion.
I loved him.
I did.
I do.
I still.
I still.
God—I still.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
Not for him to come—
but for the world to let him.
He says I’m it—
the right one, the perfect match.
Says fate wrote us in ink.
But he won’t fight for it.
Not now.
Not while he’s losing to himself.
My bones reach
for a light that’s gone—
like wildflowers grasping
for a sun that won’t return.
His laugh filled me with light.
His silence emptied me faster.
I held open doors
in every lifetime I could imagine.
I softened my voice.
I swallowed my need.
I became so small,
even my own body forgot me.
I gave.
And gave.
And gave.
And they called it beautiful—
but never stayed.
My love is too much.
Too soon.
Too soft.
Too heavy.
I was made to love like this.
And they were made to leave.
He picked me like a wildflower.
Gently.
As if he knew I might not stay.
The wind took me from his hands—
not all at once,
but slowly.
I slipped.
He didn’t fight.
Not hard enough.
A wildflower,
begging to be picked.
Never meant for a vase.
I do.
I do.
I do.
Not in vow—
but in ruin.
Let there be a version of us
that makes it.
Let him see this.
Let him know.
Let him ache.
Let him break open,
like I did—
in quiet,
in kindness,
in full,
and without warning.
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 11:52 AM UTC
The Wildflower Vow
by Shani Barnard
He said he loved me,
and I wore those words like a necklace—
tight enough to bruise,
too pretty to take off.
I was the cathedral.
He lit one candle and left,
while I burned down to the ground—
like a string unravelled
from the hem of my own devotion.
I loved him.
I did.
I do.
I still.
I still.
God—I still.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
Not for him to come—
but for the world to let him.
He says I’m it—
the right one, the perfect match.
Says fate wrote us in ink.
But he won’t fight for it.
Not now.
Not while he’s losing to himself.
My bones reach
for a light that’s gone—
like wildflowers grasping
for a sun that won’t return.
His laugh filled me with light.
His silence emptied me faster.
I held open doors
in every lifetime I could imagine.
I softened my voice.
I swallowed my need.
I became so small,
even my own body forgot me.
I gave.
And gave.
And gave.
And they called it beautiful—
but never stayed.
My love is too much.
Too soon.
Too soft.
Too heavy.
I was made to love like this.
And they were made to leave.
He picked me like a wildflower.
Gently.
As if he knew I might not stay.
The wind took me from his hands—
not all at once,
but slowly.
I slipped.
He didn’t fight.
Not hard enough.
A wildflower,
begging to be picked.
Never meant for a vase.
I do.
I do.
I do.
Not in vow—
but in ruin.
Let there be a version of us
that makes it.
Let him see this.
Let him know.
Let him ache.
Let him break open,
like I did—
in quiet,
in kindness,
in full,
and without warning.
