You took my right hand
roughly
as my father let go of my left,
gently.
You pulled me in,
hip to hip,
like possession was protection.
Your arm a gate.
Your eyes a warning.
At eighteen, I mistook it for love.
I mistook you for safety.
I mistook my own silence
for peace.
Had I known to read the sky
not just the vows,
not just the Bible
I might’ve seen it sooner.
The storm.
The lock.
The long, dry ache.
But I followed my heart,
naïve and newlywed,
into twenty years
of dimming light.
Then,
at thirty-eight,
the universe got louder.
You walked out.
Left your offspring.
Left me.
Empty-handed,
half-lit,
still standing.
That’s when I saw it.
The signs.
The stars.
The truth written all along:
I was never meant
to be someone’s shadow.
I was meant
to rise.