I used to think bleeding made me worthy. That if I burned slow enough, someone might finally call it love…. But it’s not love.
It’s a quiet execution.
I give, and give, and they call it devotion, but no one ever asks why I never stop.
I twist myself into prayers, crawl into their peace like a grave, and call it my purpose. But I’m tired of being a vessel for someone else’s softness. Tired of being holy only when I am hollow.
They sleep soundly while I splinter, and I tell myself it means I matter. But I don’t feel holy. I feel used.