The mirror holds a map of fractured glass,
Where every jagged edge reflects your hand.
You planted seeds within the mountain pass
And watched them choke the spirit of the land.
For years, the harvest was a bitter fruit—
I learned to hate the soil where I grew,
To seek the rot that settled at the root,
And carve my own reflection out of you.
How do you mend a mirror turned to dust?
How do you scrub the ink from off the bone?
I built a life upon a heap of rust,
And claimed the hollowed silence as my own.
The lesson was a masterclass of shame,
A curriculum of shrinking from the light,
Where every whisper echoed with your name,
And turned my morning marrow into night.
Can I forgive? The word is far too slight,
A paper shield against a burning sun.
To pardon you would mean to clear the blight,
And undo everything that came undone.
But perhaps forgiveness isn’t meant for you,
It isn’t an absolution for your ghost;
It is the act of burning what you drew,
To save the person that I loved the most.
I am not healing—I am being forged,
In fires lit by all the hate you taught.
The debt of love that you so greedily gorged
Is paid in full by all the battles fought.
I leave the hatred where it first began,
Not to set you free, or make amends,
But to reclaim the woman from the plan
Of someone who was never meant to be a friend.
The scar remains, a border on the map,
But I have stopped apologizing for the terrain.
I’ve climbed my way out of the folding trap;
I’ve learned to walk in shelter, not the rain.
I do not need to love you to be whole,
I only need to stop the war within.
I am the keeper of my own burned soul,
And that is where the forgiveness must begin.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: June 15th, 2026 06:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
A deep write of discovery
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