Dig into my chest like it’s bare soil—make it a grave, not for
mourning, but for planting. Let my heart be buried like a seed,
not as a casualty. **** out what once wrapped itself around
me like vines of bitterness, strangling my better nature. And if
love is to grow, let it bloom where my brokenness once lived.

To those who fall in love, only to fall harder out of it—do not
call yourselves foolish. Rising from that grave, petals torn but
still reaching for the sun, aren’t you the rose that dared the dirt?
Beautiful in defiance, bruised but not defeated.

Each morning, the sun rises like it’s trying to convince me it’s
worth beginning again. Beneath that light, my thoughts crash
like waves against the cliffs of a heart too mountainous to climb.
I keep counting stars like uncashed wishes, dreams I tuck into
the corners of silence. Love plays its hand close to the chest—
a secret it folds into itself, waiting to be revealed when the
moment is just right.

But I’ll never know enough. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. But I have
loved—truly, painfully, and almost beautifully. And that should
count for something, by the sum of this heart that still beats,
and still believes, but also still breaks.

So here I am, with these cards on the table. No bluff left in me.
Even a faithful lover would cry, 'God, are you listening; deal me
a better hand. Not one free of pain, but one I can hold with both
hands steady. One that doesn’t slip through the cracks I’ve tried
so hard to mend. But one I can grip with love, and not lose again.'

But oh, how you'll weep— not for what’s been lost,
but for what you're scared to lose.