You wear your sins like royal thread,

a crown of thorns upon your head.

Your hands have built, your hands have torn,

they’ve held me close, they’ve left me worn.

 

The world cries out, it speaks your name,

etched in echoes carved by flame.

Yet in the dark, where no one sees,

you whisper love like dying leaves.

 

I hope it rains in hell—

not to quench your fire,

but to cleanse your sorrow,

to whisper who you were before the ruin.

 

Even if you never feel the loss,

even if my name fades from your lips,

I will still wish you water

where you deserve only ash.

 

I will still dream of softer days,

when your eyes held more sky than storm,

when your laughter rang like mercy,

not like a warning bell before the fall.

 

I carry the weight of your yesterdays—

not to chain myself to your shadow,

but to remember that even monsters

were once children,

reaching for light with trembling hands.

 

I do not forgive the breaking,

but I understand the silent cracks—

how some hearts bleed before they beat,

how some hands tremble before they touch.

 

And if you ever stand at the edge of your silence,

wondering if anyone once saw you whole,

know this:

I did.

 

I saw the boy beneath the ruin,

crying behind the fire, burning just to feel alive.

And I mourn him still—

not for what he became,

but for what he never had a chance to be.

 

So let it rain in hell—

not for mercy,

but for memory.

Not to cool your burns,

but to remind you

that once, you were loved

by someone who meant it.