My Soul’s Unrest
My soul does not rest
in places that pretend to love me.
It paces—boundless, breathless—
inside a body still fighting
to believe in care.
Guilt’s jaws clasp shut; I am trapped,
essence gnawed like prey,
nothing left intact.
I reach for a way out in pitch black,
direction gone, power thin,
no shoulder to lean on, no trust to give.
My heart whispers softly—
will I let it live?
I was built
from broken promises,
stitched with silence,
raised on half-truths and hungry stares.
You said you loved me
but couldn’t name how.
When options vanished
and my heart fell into the wrong hands,
I feared misuse, mistreatment, pain—
numbness crept in without refrain.
I buried my heart in the pit of my stomach,
but pain and confusion
rose like smoke and stayed.
I hunt for feeling in desperation;
with every guttural pulse it flees.
Mirrors show a figure I recognize
while truth takes flight.
Silhouettes chase me down the hall;
I reassemble the pieces
and the seams still fray.
My eyes hold the cold,
the silver of my soul’s unrest.
My heart grows weary, its rhythm distressed;
my mind wanders the edges of itself,
control loosening, fear taking the lead.
Frozen, I hope you won’t see
how thin my grip has become.
Knees meet the floor—
surrender first, then breath,
and something opens.
Love, you taught me,
was earned in exhaustion,
measured in compliance.
I now know:
real love doesn’t demand I disappear
to make room for it.
So I listen—quiet, then clearer—
to the small voice I hid.
Finally my feelings find me;
they were always here,
circling the dark with patient light.
Guilt lingers at the doorway,
but I stand, humbled and taller,
shaking ash from my hair.
I am done shrinking.
I am done apologizing
for the space I am.
If love cannot hold me as I am,
it has no right to my becoming.
And I—
I rise again, after every fall,
held together not by fear,
but by the living fact of me.