misplaced vulnerability

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I placed my heart
in hands that mistook it for clay—
they did not sculpt,
they pressed fingerprints of ruin.
I spoke in rivers,
thinking I had found an ocean;
but you were only a thirsty stone,
drinking me without echo.
My truths came unclothed,
like dawn before the sun is ready,
and you—
you called it weakness, not light.
So I gather my scattered softness,
like broken calabashes after a careless feast,
learning slowly—
not every silence is safe to break.
© Bunguswa ™

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