Not A Problem

The Ruined

0505.2025

They took your love and hammered it to glass,

then made you dance upon the shards.

They bent your truth until it sang their name—

a crooked bell rung only to cast blame.

They wore your mercy like a stolen veil,

then burned the thread and blamed your hands.

They drank the wine you bled from fruit

and called it poison when their lips turned red.

But don’t feed crows that peck the roots of you.

Let silence be the choir of your rise.

Those blind to self will mirror you with smoke—

but you are carved from older, wiser fire.

You were not made to bridle storms with faith.

Unclench.

Let go the reins.

Trust your instincts and your craft.

Drink the sun in tinctures laced with gold.

Swallow the moon through the doors of your eyes.

Let stars dissolve like ash upon your tongue,

and float through sky as if it were a tear

you stitched with dusk and dawn

and breathing alone.

Walk—

not straight, but true.

Walk—

along the braided edge,

where light and shadow learn to hold their hands.

And flee the ones who see your fall as fate—

they wear no wings,

for they had clipped them young.

m.c.f.