Even Saints Leave

Please come back I’m sorry I pushed you away. It’s the only defense I know: to build a fire so hot it drives you out before you can wake up one day and decide I was never worth keeping.

You asked to see my scars, so I let you. I peeled back the bandages, named the ghosts, spilled the secrets that still cut me from the inside. But naming pain is never neat it trembles as it leaves my lips, fragile as glass, sharper than the honesty you crave.

You left me open, a body on the table, the lights above too bright, my chest cracked wide, my pulse trembling in your hands.

I thought you’d hold me. Instead, I am left here, aching in the absence, searching for mercy, praying for clarity a sacred kind of honesty, the kind even a Saint would promise.

I asked for nothing more than words I could trust. But your silence sharpens like glass, your distance whispers louder than anything you ever said. And now I carry both wounds: the old scars and the new one of you.