I will not take this. This abuse. This punishment. My heart is not tamed. The lion still remembers what it means to hunt, to stalk, to believe it is the king. I will not forget what it meant to vanish into those dreams— so sure certain things would come, like a package already paid for, waiting on the step. The memory— what it meant to love unrestrained, before the muscle twisted, before it choked on pain, before it started coughing up guilt like blood. Old heart’s not tamed, not broken— just cracked, down on one knee, dragging its shadow down the hall. What it means to turn back, to step over my own wreckage and call it returning, keys in my shaking hand at your chipped violet door, the only good thing I ever did, or so I told myself. You are my blood, my same clay, the face I see when I run out of mirrors. So when you tell me to leave, the answer is No. I'll stay.
Awesome! 🙌
Blood does matter.