They came with shadows in their hands,
Plotted whispers, shifting sands—
But I stood still, a breath, a flame,
Too calm to curse, too tired to name.

Their fingers stitched a web of doubt,
While I stayed quiet, looking out—
Not with anger, not with plea,
But with the grace of letting be.

Insects of envy clung like skin,
But I shed them soft from deep within.
Mother said, "They’re not your own—
They’re dreams that others try to loan."

The forest called, a tent, a test,
Where silence dressed me in its vest.
Misread, misseen, but I stayed true—
To soul, to self, to what I knew.

They came too late with trembling eyes,
“Why didn’t you dodge our crafted lies?”
But truth had cleared what shame had spun—
And I had long since come undone.

Not broken—no, I didn’t fall.
I just let go… of needing all.
Their guilt arrived, but I was far—
Already healed beneath the scar.

For when truth arrives too late, you see,
It cannot touch what ceased to be.
It can’t reopen what’s quietly quit—
A heart that’s long healed without it.

So ask me not why I withdrew—
The storm passed, and I outgrew
The place where trust had turned to stone.
I didn’t wait… I walked alone.