The things I should have said,
The ways in which I turned away,
Protecting an image I never was,
For a salvation I never knew.
But now I have learned,
That salvation lies only in turning toward,
In burning these images one by one,
In letting go of these precious children,
The ones I smothered with love,
Out of fear of being nothing.
This may be harder than letting go
of my actual children.
But whoever said
unconditional love was easy?
It is not easy.
It is internal genocide.
The flames ravage without discrimination.
Leaving no part of me untouched.
But I’d rather die than never know this love.
So have no pity, dear friend.
Sit by my side as I burn.
Hold my hand this one last time.
Let me feel your warm presence.
Know that I always loved you
in my own imperfect way.
And through the thick and rancid smoke of my old self,
Through the passing of all that we thought would never pass,
Can you smell the unspeakable freedom?
Do you understand now?