I have loved like benediction spoken through glass,
pressing my palms against something unyielding.
You were the mirror and the wound,
and I mistook reflection for devotion.

There is a softness I keep chained,
a trembling, winged thing that flinches from light.
When love reaches for me, I retreat —
a tide pulling itself back before it can be seen.
It is easier to ache in private
than to risk being held and found wanting.

I built cathedrals from my restraint,
pillars of composure to hide the flood beneath.
Each silence a measured contemplation,
each withdrawal, a prayer for control.

But I am learning that grace does not mean suffering in silence—
that my tenderness is not a sin to conceal.
I can unlace my fear and still remain whole,
I can love without vanishing.

I am learning that love does not demand my disappearance—
only my presence, unhidden, awake.

Now, I gather what is left of me:
salt, shadow, breath.
I rise from the altar I once bled upon,
no longer offering my heart as penance,
but as proof that I have survived.

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories

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