I Drew the Borderlines with Ink

It began with a helmet I couldn’t wear right,

too heavy with stories I wasn’t brave enough to live,

filigreed with battles I’d only ever whispered to myself while pretending I was more than canvas and fear,

more than the frayed edge of someone else’s unfinished sketch.

The map unfolded like a confession no one asked for,

roads bleeding into rivers, borders curling like ash off the spool of memory,

and I followed a line that wasn’t mine; still I traced it faithfully,

as if it might end at your door,

though you never built one for me.

The candleholders flickered with too much grace,

casting shadows shaped like choices I never had the courage to touch,

and still I stood there, charcoal in hand,

trying to draw myself into something lovable, something loud.

But I was always quieter than paint,

more faithful than brushstroke,

holding fast to the echo of a name you once let slip,

tender as ruin,

soft as ruin,

mine only because you forgot to take it back.

And in that small flame,

reflected in a helmet meant for someone braver,

I saw the shape of what I almost was,

and forgave it.