What Love Requires
Every morning,
I wake up trying to make things right with God.
Trying to feel worthy again.
As if I failed Him in my sleep
and need to be restored before I can take a step.
It’s a bitter rhythm
the up, the down
the constant wondering
if He’s mad at me.
This is what they did to me,
taught me to see every silence as punishment,
every mistake as proof that I’m the problem.
I’m working harder to unlearn their voices
than anything else.
Always wrong.
Always to blame.
Because no one ever said, I’m sorry.
No one ever said, You were right to feel hurt.
So now my mind builds prisons out of guilt,
and my heart keeps looking for a key
in the hands of the very people who locked the door.
God, I want to be free.
But part of me still believes
if they saw what they did
if they reached for me,
tried to make it right
then I’d matter.
Then my pain would matter.
I want to believe I could taste love
without earning it first.
That I wouldn’t have to shrink,
or apologize,
or take the blame again
just to belong.
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