When they were small, and I was stretched thin,

my hands full of need, my spirit worn dim,

I moved through the days in a blur of demands—

tiny hands tugging, dirty plates stacking,

laundry tumbling in endless commands.

I wanted silence, I craved a door—

a boundary drawn, a self to restore.

In that wanting, I whispered “not now,”

not out of disdain, but not knowing how

to balance their light with the shadows I bore.

I told them to go—just for a while—

and in doing so, missed the miracle smile,

the open hearts, the stories they brought,

while I folded towels and buried my thoughts

beneath a weight I never reconciled.

I see it now—this pattern I trace—

with creatures who nuzzle and humans who wait.

Even now, I draw back to a space

where no one can enter, no one can stay,

and love is withheld in the name of escape.

But my heart is no longer content to retreat.

I want to reach out, not just take up my seat.

Let me lay down this tired defense,

and offer my presence in place of pretense—

to meet them with grace instead of defeat.

Oh Lord of mercy, rewrite this song:

teach me the rhythm where both selves belong.

Not silence that severs, nor closeness that smothers,

but room for my soul—and room for the others.