A poetic lament of regret and resolve

I.

In the hush of afternoon light,

my Bible lay open like a gate to Heaven—

pages whispering peace I did not possess.

Pregnant, swollen with new life,

I forced stillness on the lives I’d already borne.

Three small souls tucked into silence,

my son—six, wide-eyed and restless—

emerged with hope in hand,

asking gently,

“Can I read with you instead?”

But I was a woman ruled by order,

a soldier of routine,

and I sent him back to his bed

as if curiosity were a sin,

as if connection were a crime.

I said, “No.”

And the word sits now

in the back of my throat

like a rusted nail.

He returned to the dark of his room,

crushed,

while I sat unmoved,

still hungry for holiness

yet blind to the sacred moment I’d just turned away.

I did not read.

I did not pray.

I only learned—too late—what I lost.

II.

Another night, the room was dim,

his face streaked with sorrow he could not name.

“Why are you crying?” I asked,

as if tenderness were foreign.

He could not answer.

Only wept.

And so I raised my voice,

my hand,

my fury.

The cycle turned

and I became

my father.

Whip.

Threat.

Whip again.

Three rounds of pain

to wring out what I could not understand.

My husband’s voice

broke the spell:

“Enough.”

But it was already too much.

III.

And now—

when the house is quiet again,

when time has stripped my children’s cries

from their once-tender chords—

I hear echoes of those nights

in the rustle of leaves,

the hum of fans,

the silence before sleep.

I despise the woman I was.

Not from shame alone—

but because I knew better.

Because I swore I would be different.

Because I longed to break

the chains of how I was raised,

and instead,

I forged them anew.

IV.

If I could gather all my sorrow,

all the weight of “I should have,”

and press it into the soil—

perhaps something tender

could still grow.

Perhaps my tears,

though late,

can nourish

the roots of mercy.

Perhaps in confession,

a curse can crack.

I do not seek to forget—

but to transform.

To hold their names

as sacred offerings.

To live the next breath

better.