I Will Stay
a blessing for the body I live in
I see you.
Not in passing—
not with pity
or with distance—
but eye to eye.
Tender and steady.
I bless the boy
who cried into silence,
who begged to be held,
who feared that softness
would cost him belonging

I see you now.
Softness is your armor.
You were always a prophet.
Always a priest.
Always enough.
I bless these hands,
calloused from all
they clutched too tightly,
from all
they chafed to hold—

now they open.
Now they touch the sacred
without trembling–
naked, unashamed,
building altars in bare feet:
communion.
I bless this chest,
bruised and scarred
from too many nights
it had to shield your joy—

now it holds paradox
without breaking:
fear and faith,
longing and gratitude,
grief and resurrection.
I bless these eyes—
so tired,
so honest.
Still looking.
Still wanting.
They never stopped
seeking,
even when sleep
would've been
easier.
I bless this mouth—
not for what it's said
or couldn't say,
but for how it learned
to form the words:
I belong here—
and you do too.
I bless this soul—
I see the ache
that drove you searching,
the holy restlessness
compelling you forward–
a poet,
a question-asker,
a witness of the in-between.

Now it pulses with knowing,
with memory you've stopped
outrunning.
Shaking:
once glass
in an earthquake–
now release.
rhythm.
dance.
I will not exile the parts of me
that lived before I was safe.
I will not shame the fire
that burned too wild.
I will not betray the countless voices
at the table in my chest.
Friends, teachers, wise ones—
you are all welcome, without condition.
We do not have to prove our goodness
to be good.
We do not have to lose ourselves
to be found.
We do not have to be proven worthy
to be named.
We do not have to offer the world anything–
only this:
all of who I am
right now.
We are.
I am.
And I love every little piece.
And I will stay.
Not because I have arrived,
but because I no longer need
to escape.
Because this—
this body,
this world,
this universe—
is home.
To think I once thought
I had nothing
when reality
is abundant—in extremis:
Presence.
Worthiness.
Purpose.
Love.
All woven into its fabric
with particular intent.
I am not waiting to be loved,
for I was loved into being—
and so now I love.
I am not waiting to be chosen,
for I was chosen when I was an idea—
and so now I choose.
I am not waiting to be witnessed,
for I have been witnessed thoroughly—
and so now I witness.
I am not waiting to be named,
for I have been named over and over—
and so now I name myself as I am:
Fire and Thread.
He who wields
wounds:
passion–
sewn
precisely.

Witness and Home.
He who tills the sacred
like earth, daring:
I am holy,
and becoming
still.
Lion and Friend.
David and Jonathan,
reciprocally—
beloved and beloved.
I see you—
all that you are—
and I love you.
I am learning to move as He moves:
the technique,
the nuances,
the steps,
the deference.
And I choose to dance.

I do not hesitate.
I do not turn away.
I choose to live
deliberately.
And I will stay.