I have seen what you make of grief.
And I have seen what you make of love.
A tool.
A ladder.
A battlefield.
A project.
A bargain.
A task.
A desperate hand clawing
Out of what it believes is need.

You circle the same wounds
Like a starving hound,
Wearing grooves through the earth
And calling it progress.

Listen:

No one was asking for a cure.
No one was asking for a crown.
No one was asking to be followed
Into every dark thing
You found compassion for within yourself.

You do this, always--
You take up a sickness
And proclaim it a destiny.
You touch a fire
And call the burns holy.

But there are places where hands only ruin.
There are truths that hold no secrets.
There are things that do not become kinder
Because you have decided to bleed for them.

You are not the center of every collapse.
You are not the hinge every door must swing upon.
You are not the blade,
the balm,
the reason,
or the resolution.

And you--
You keep trying to carry what was never yours.
You keep pressing your shape into every open space
as though emptiness were an invitation.

I have watched you leave yourself behind
like loose feathers in a breeze.
I have watched you trade your name,
your body,
your future,
for the comfort of believing
you were being useful.

But usefulness is not innocence.

And sacrifice is not proof that you were right.

So hear this plainly:

This is not your project.
This is not your penance.
This is not the thing your ruin gets to redeem.

Step back.
Let the world be larger than your guilt.
Let it dissociate from your purpose.
Let some things persist
without your interference,

And open your eyes to some simplicity;
It's not about you.
This hasn't been a cruelty.
This is a mercy upon yourself.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Valnuary, in the year 1007 AF.