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.