They cling no more or I refuse to let them.
Guilt, nostalgia, shame hang like spider-strings, thin.
Glinting threads from a life I’ve pried open.
I pull, they stretch.
I breathe, and they fray.
I mourned the architecture of belonging.
Hymns that lulled me into an easy prayer, promises that paved fear with tidy answers. Those comforts were real and they were the cornerstones of keeping.
I mourned the betrayal too.
The quiet barter of questions for certainty, the language that hushed me.
The hands that steered my faith like a map not mine.
That grief burned clear. It taught me how to name the fracture.
This phase is over.
I cut the last fine line, let the spider-strings fall like spent silk.
What remains is not empty but intentionally furnished with love and care.
A wide, fierce clearing.
I step in, barefoot to the honest dirt, and refuse to kneel.