Longing, longing—
solitude seeps through the cracks.
Pit-patter, it pools in my lap.
Let me cleanse your wounds with salt and grain;
the villagers watch, their eyes full of disdain.
I whisper, look, look away.
They do not understand my salt and grain.
They’ll knock on my door,
calling me witch, calling me cursed.
You’ll stand firm,
steady as rain,
not a flicker of doubt in your name.
But when you see—
the salt, the grain,
it was never yours.
It was always meant for me.