The bitter, holy night that I surrendered, it felt like loss. Dreams, slaughtered on the altar.
(There was no angel to stop me, and all around the thornbushes were bare.)
I did not stay to watch the blood collect in pools, did not wait for it to curdle in the heat of the coming day. Though, when I turned away, that knife-twist of pain--the final heart-spasm of mourning.
(Having not-quite forgotten, yet not-quite the ability to believe: I never give anything to my God that He does not return a thousand times over.)
After years of holding on, it took only a moment to let go. And from that dead seed I buried, in awe I watched a garden grow.
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