we put all of our worth into our strength. we fell apart.
i earned your respect by walking through blueblack fires. it’s no wonder it didn’t last, and it’s no wonder that i’m still burned. burnt.
so we told ourselves that we were strong, we were steel, and this was our comfort while flames raged, this was a secret peace we never wanted to admit. there was no jailer, gaoler, there were no bars. so how dare you condescend to me when, with the weight of your own years, so many more than mine, you haven’t found the maze out of this place, you don’t have any answers.
it is never easy. you are dealt your lot and you do what you can. sometimes you get it all wrong, and then you must kneel and make your confession, and it’s never pretty. absolution isn’t free.
today, some five six ten years later, i’m only grateful to know that i have worth beyond the trials i can withstand.
There is a story here that I am dying to know but even if I don’t ever know it; these words, put together with that grace of yours are enough. More than enough. Once again, beautiful.
I knew I missed one, in between, that I had saved in my reader for some time still to come. This was it.
You are right, you know. Worth is immeasurable, even when it doesn’t feel that way. It is static, and strength varies. It is the rightness of this that is so loud to me as I read it right now at two in the morning.