I forgive like rain,
soft and steady, washing wounds clean
even when they were carved into me.
I pour grace like water into cups
that never once filled mine.
I am the open door,
the light in others’ storms,
the hands that hold,
the voice that soothes
and yet no one stays
to check if I’m still breathing
after the healing is done.
Heaven-sent, they say,
but even angels fall silent
when no one listens to their cries.
I gave pieces of myself
to build bridges, mend hearts,
carry burdens too heavy
for broken backs to hold.
But who sees me?
Who carries me?
I am not weak
no, I’m made of grief and grit,
a woman stitched from suffering
and stubborn hope.
But I am tired.
Tired of being the strong one
in rooms full of silence
when I need saving too.
No one could walk
the warpath I’ve walked
and still offer love with open palms.
No one could break this much
and still want to make others whole.
And that’s the tragedy.
That’s the ache.
Not that I can’t forgive them,
but that I forgot how to choose me.