I suppose you lied—
when you swore that words could never wound you.
It is no crime; all souls deceive,
veiling their thresholds,
concealing the hour when endurance unravels,
and silence becomes their only shield.
I have reshaped fragments of myself,
filed edges though the steel endures—
yes, I remain a thorn,
but my counsel turns inward now,
no longer flung outward like brittle seeds,
but sown deep in the soil of my own marrow.
And so the contract splinters—not with fire, but with the quiet severing of a thread,
a fellowship drifting into distance,
a vessel whose torn sails I will never mend.
I am content—resting in the stillness I have chosen.
And you—
are you at peace, or only silent?
Growth through loss; peace found in letting go.
