In the End

 

I carried the shape you traced,

a vessel cut to your measure,

but the grain ran otherwise—

knots where you wanted polish,

splinters where you asked for sheen.

 

I bent, yes,

but the bend was fracture,

and the fracture sang its own line.

 

You looked for a mirror,

I offered a window.

You asked for a key,

I was only a door left ajar.

 

So this saga closes:

not as betrayal,

not as triumph,

but as the quiet fact—

I was never the figure

you drafted in your hand.

 

And still,

I remain:

unfinished,

unwanted,

yet wholly mine.

 

 

 

.