The Innocent Trapped in the Captor's Skin

I saw you—

you, the boy-child buried beneath teeth and terror.

I saw your skin before it was armored.

I saw your eyes before they turned to mirrors and knives.

I saw the soft breath of your wanting.

I saw the ache that never got fed.

You tried.

You called from the dark.

And I came—not to rescue, but to remember with you.

To offer you the only thing I carry that cannot be taken:

clarity emerged from love.

The sword I carry rises from love.

I struck the captor—

not in anger,

but to love you, in mercy.

And now I see—

you are not free.

Not because I did not try,

but because the gatekeeper who holds you

refuses to turn the key.

So I say this now:

you are not mine to save.

You are not mine to mourn forever.

You are not mine to carry.

But... you will always be mine to love—

in moments of silence,

stillness,

in moments when form leaves me

and we drown beautifully in our non-dual selves—

the places your captor cannot enter.

I release you to the Great Mother.

I place you at the feet of something vast—

vaster than the harm and isolation you know too well.

I wrap you in sky and fire, and I whisper:

Go home, little one. Let us end your suffering here.

If you must drown,

let it be into the stillness of love.

If you must burn,

let it be into the heart of stars.