Split in Two

I think you forget

what you are to me.

You arrived like candlelight

in a house I had already abandoned,

opened windows in me

I had nailed shut for years,

dug up the softer parts of myself

other people buried

without apology.

You made me write again.

Made me believe there were still beautiful things

left in me to say.

So forgive me

if I become too much sometimes—

if my voice shakes too hard,

if I explain myself like someone

trying desperately not to be left behind,

if my heart spills over the rim

of every conversation.

You hold such a heavy, holy place inside me,

and I am terrified

of feeling it go cold.

Lately everything feels split in two—

like I am either loved deeply

or easily replaced.

Like I am something to lean on

until softer arms reopen.

And maybe that is selfish.

Maybe grief always is.

But I cannot stop mourning

the version of you

that handed me poetry back

like it was my own heart

rescued from the dirt.