# Repentance I have sinned against the light— that gentle, forgiving light that fell upon my face like a mother's touch. I turned away. Not in anger, but in shame, the way a child hides when caught in a small lie. The light remained, patient as prayer, while I invented reasons for my darkness. Now I come back, stumbling through the dusk, my hands outstretched like someone waking from a long sleep. Will it still know me? This light that asked so little— only that I look, only that I believe? I have spent years in the architecture of my own shadow, building walls from the dust of my refusals. But dust, I've learned, is not stone. It scatters. It returns to air. So I stand here at the threshold of forgiveness, not yet believing I might be welcomed home— yet hoping, as only the penitent can hope, that the light has been waiting all along.

I didn't know what true love meant
Until the day you slipped away.
Since then, I've cursed every word that left my lips,
Each angry thing I hurled at you.

Rage had seized me—I wasn't thinking straight—
But the pain had to pour out somehow.
I couldn't hold it in any longer,
Not after the way you turned from me.

A world caved in inside me that moment.
I'd believed you loved all of me, every flaw.
I never wanted it to happen either.
But I was powerless to stop what came.

Before that, I had already been broken.
Fate toyed with us both, and he changed his heart:
He took what he never truly gave,
And I took the next blow.

I've lived like this since—alone, alone, alone—
Tied to someone, yet starving for a soul.
I can't feel what I once felt,
That fierce certainty I'd have done anything for you.

Now all I can hope for is
Your way back to me,
I forgive each word you spoke,
The ones that carved so deep.