You Did Not Come Here to Be Safe

You did not come here

to fold your wild soul into a shape

someone else could name.

You did not come here

to bargain with your ache,

to negotiate your joy down to something

manageable,

reasonable,

quiet.

My dearest . . .

you came with a flame

that would not fit inside

your father’s silence

or your mother’s smile

or their idea of devotion.

You came with a mouth full of songs

your ancestors buried in their ribs

when the world grew too cruel

for beauty.

And yet you whisper love

like it still matters.

You wear your longing

like a second skin,

thin as breath,

soft as a prayer you are afraid to speak aloud.

But let me tell you, precious one:

You will not survive this love

if you do not enter it

whole.

Leave the clever apologies.

Abandon the careful nod.

Tear the mask from your face

and say what the heart

has always wanted to say:

I am here.

I am terrifying.

I am tender.

And I will not leave myself

again.

Yes . . .

your hiding has hurt them . . .

Your distance has shaped their grief . . .

But still, the Beloved waits at the door

with two cups and no judgment, asking only:

Will you drink

from the cup of your own soul

before I offer you mine?