When you reject me, the blow is heavy—
a sudden collapse, a shift in the tectonic plates
of my composure.
It feels like a deep-sea dive,
where the oxygen thins, the pressure mounts,
and your lungs scream for a surface you cannot reach.
Yet, I keep swimming.

I never expected this strike from you.
I trusted that you saw the strata of my being,
that you looked past the surface and saw the soul
my heart had already mapped out for you.
But you struck without warning—
no, you didn’t kill me.
You simply drove an arrow into my gut,
leaving a jagged mark in the sediment of my days.

But the soul?
The soul is crystalline and deep;
it cannot be pierced while this body still carries it.
What hurts is not the wound, but the blindness—
that you failed to recognize the landscape before you,
placing me in a waiting line with others
who, like me, once mistakenly believed in your core.

You pushed us away; me, you wounded.
The arrow remains, a bitter fixture in my side.
Yet, I am breathing.
And I tell you this: I will return.
I will return to ask for the love you withheld,
but I will not be the same.

While this arrow remains, I am searching
for the fish’s path out of your tangled net,
refusing to be cast aside, to dry out on the shore.
I am praying for the strength to trust my own density,
to endure the pressure until I harden into something immovable.

So, live your shallow life without meaning.
Deceive others as you deceived me.
But mark my words—
I will wear every mask I have earned,
and I will visit you again.
Not for your pity, but for the finality of your sight.
And when I finally reach you, remember:
I will be soaring high, far above the ground you walk upon.