My boundaries hold me steady.
The silk threads remind me to wait,
to listen beyond words,
to sense the pulse beneath the performance.

Yet sometimes, the “almost healed” find their way through.

They arrive polished, with careful language,
knowing the shape of prayers and
the cadence of sacred speech.
They mirror wholeness so well,
it takes time to see the fractures—
the hidden splinters that cut when touched too closely.

 

Some offer tenderness that wilts under pressure.
Others promise presence,
but vanish when shadows rise.
They know the songs of awakening,
but not the silence it requires.

 

These are the ones who wound the deepest —
not out of malice, but because they come so close

to truth that the break feels like betrayal.

And still, the mirrors reveal themselves.
In time, the false glass shatters,
and the true flame endures,
unchanging, undeniable.

​

​

—Learning to wait in my own rhythm rather
than to mistake echoes for resonance.