what the altar asks
you arrived dressed as a shepherd
and i was a lamb with a broken leg.
tell me,
how was i supposed to know
the wolf had learned scripture?
you spoke in the language of healing.
wrapped commandments in ribbons
and tied them around my wrists.
i wore them proudly.
mistaking strings for stitches.
mistaking obedience for recovery.
you fed me rules
like they were medicine.
five stars hanging above my head
like constellations.
i spent nights reaching for them
until my arms gave out.
you called it effort.
i called it devotion.
i built a shrine from your approval.
lit candles with shaking hands.
watched the wax drip onto my skin
and thanked god for the warmth
while it burned me.
the thing about cages
is they start to feel holy
when somebody tells you
they were built to keep you safe.
so i kissed the bars.
called them protection.
called them guidance.
called them love.
anything but what they were.
i wore obedience like a halo.
the metal rusted into my skin.
when i bled,
you called it progress.
and i fucking believed you.
god,
i believed you.
you taught me recovery
like a dog learns tricks.
sit.
stay.
roll over.
good girl.
good girl.
good girl.
until the day i couldnt perform
and suddenly i was feral.
i buried my failures in the garden.
by spring,
they had grown your voice.
every flower leaned toward me
and whispered
not enough.
somewhere along the way
my recovery stopped belonging to me.
my pulse answered to your approval.
my worth answered to your anger.
and i became so afraid of losing you
that i called it healing.
i mistook the leash for a lifeline.
held it against my chest
and wondered why i couldn't breathe.
they asked me what was so good about you.
i searched your pockets
for something worth all the bruises.
a miracle.
a map.
a reason.
but all i found
were the promises
id put there myself.
i searched your pockets for gold
only to find my own coins.
somewhere,
there's a version of me
who never answered your message.
she sleeps through the night.
she doesn't count her worth
in completed tasks.
she doesn't mistake fear
for devotion.
she doesn't kneel
at altars that demand pieces of her
in exchange for mercy.
and somewhere,
there's a graveyard full of teeth.
every piece of myself
i bit out and left behind
just to make room for you.
now the candles have burned out.
the ribbons have come undone.
the shepherd has lost his flock.
and for the first time,
i can see the wolf
without the scripture.
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