Samuel

I called and

I Called, and You Let It Ring

I bled out in silence,

not on a battlefield,

but in a parking lot at sunrise,

hands shaking,

the world spinning,

the weight of a trigger heavier than breath.

I thought of the baby we lost,

the one you tucked in the back of your mind

like a bill you’d never pay.

I thought of hospital walls,

machines hissing life into a body

you didn’t bother to visit.

Nerve damage,

white hairs,

and nights where God was the only one

who heard me choke on my own prayers.

You told yourself you cared —

but care doesn’t watch a man drown

and call it swimming.

Care doesn’t let a hand slip away

because it’s easier than holding on.

I survived,

not because you loved me,

but because I loved myself

just enough to crawl out of the dark

and slam the door behind me.

So here’s my last prayer for you:

May the silence you gave me

be the echo that keeps you awake.

May the man in your bed

look nothing like salvation.

And may you never mistake my absence

for a loss —

because losing me

is the only truth you’ve ever earned.