Sit, process.
Place your hand on your chin,
let the weight of thought settle.
Digest.
Sketch the craft
your heart desires.
Now I see why
it is engraved—
Know yourself.
Shape yourself.
Only then should love find you,
not to complete you,
but to complement the wholeness
you’ve become.
I look at him,
then back at myself—
we are two worlds apart.
The small connections between us
try to whisper,
but my identity shouts back.
I mistook admiration for love.
I mistook yearning for destiny.
I wanted to be seen,
so I let myself drown
in a love that wasn’t real.
But now, I must sift myself,
slowly, painfully, deliberately—
pulling away in fragments,
escaping his grip,
even as guilt grips me back.
I fear breaking him,
but I am breaking myself.
And so, I ask—
Lord, permit me to mold
what remains of me.
The illusion of love I once believed in.
Realization and repentance.
I hope he understands.
