Hard Truths

There is a difference in the blade—  

the one built to sever,  

and the one shaped to carve.  

I have held both in my hands,  

mistaking sharpness for care,  

learning late that not all wounds  

are necessary.

There is someone, I hope,  

who sees through smoke-thick longing,  

who hears my plans unraveled

not to criticize their shape  

but to anchor their weight,  

to measure them against the tide  

instead of the moonlight.

I want someone who understands  

the way truth balances on the tongue,  

not as a trembling accusation,  

not as a weapon to wield  

for their own clean reflection,  

but a gift they place in my lap:  

warm, deliberate, heavy,  

and meant to last.