In the End
I carried the shape you traced,
a vessel cut to your measure,
but the grain ran otherwise—
knots where you wanted polish,
splinters where you asked for sheen.
I bent, yes,
but the bend was fracture,
and the fracture sang its own line.
You looked for a mirror,
I offered a window.
You asked for a key,
I was only a door left ajar.
So this saga closes:
not as betrayal,
not as triumph,
but as the quiet fact—
I was never the figure
you drafted in your hand.
And still,
I remain:
unfinished,
unwanted,
yet wholly mine.
.