This is not where her story ends

 

inspired by *Precious in O Block

I was not there for flesh.

Not there for lust.

I was not hunting for curves under neon lights.

I came for the sound 

basslines beating like blood in my ears,

for smoke curling like secrets in the corners of mouths,

for laughter that hides pain between puffs and poured drinks.

But I saw her.

Saw her before she saw me.

Not her hips.

Not her lips.

Not her trade.

I saw her eyes, I saw the truth.

A whisper of grace wrapped in glittering pain.

I saw through her soul like a window left open in winter.

A girl who may never have planned this path.

A woman who may be forced to make bread out of broken dreams.

So I leaned close,

not like a man with an offer,

but like a brother who sees

a sister slipping under waves.

And I said

"Queen, I apologize for what I am about to say but you do not belong to this wallpapered womb of regret.

This ain't your throne.

This ain't your song.

I don't know your past,

but I can feel your future burning behind your eyes."

She blinked.

Paused.

Swallowed the pain with the beer in her hand.

And I....

I had to leave.

Because my chest was cracking open,

my heart beat like a war drum for a soul I just met.

I ran before I cried.

But when I got home,

I did.

I cried.
And I prayed.
And I wept the way the earth does in spring
not out of weakness,
but because life demands water
for anything to grow.

I don't love her.

But I loved the child in her eyes.

The ghost of a plan never lived.

The hymn trapped in a cage of red lights and rent.

This is not where her story ends.

So I give her my whisper,

my prayer,

my poem.

Because sometimes,

a stranger’s truth

is the only bridge out of the fire.

*Name had to be changed for Privacy reasons