Not healed.
Not whole.
Just becoming.
In the quiet after the rupture.
In the fire after the silence.
In the no that finally leaves your mouth.
This isn’t a breakthrough.
It’s a return.
To what I always knew
before they named me difficult.
Before they dressed obedience as grace.
I don’t want a seat at their table.
I want to remember
that I was never meant to kneel.
Call it my unbecoming.
I am calling it home.