I know now, with the clarity of dawn,
That love is not a moan that rips and tears,
Nor hands that claim where holiness belongs,
Leaving behind a harvest of long years'
Unspoken weight, a legacy of fears.
That brutal touch, that violation stark,
Was never love, nor shadowed by its mark.
I know now, in the quiet of my soul,
The fault was not my own. The blame I bore,
A heavy shroud that made my spirit cold,
Was never mine to carry, never more.
A truth unburdened, reaching to the core.
No one was there, a hand to intercede,
To shelter me, to answer to my need.
Young was I then, too vulnerable and green,
A canvas blank, unmarked by bitter strife,
With innocence, a vulnerable sheen,
Discovering the cruelest edge of life.
A tender heart, caught in a cutting knife.
So many prices paid by youth's soft hand,
To understand what I now understand.
And to the men who took what wasn't theirs,
Who left their shame upon my tender youth,
I lift my gaze beyond the long despairs,
And offer you this hard-won, honest truth:
I forgive you. Not for your absolution,
But for my own, a sacred revolution.
To set my spirit free, and finally bloom,
Beyond the shadow, rising from the gloom.
