If I believed in me
the way I believe in you—
saw my own trembling hands
as instruments of purpose
rather than evidence of breaking,
treated my stumbles
like you treat them:
as plot twists, not endings—
If you believed in you
the way you believe in me—
recognized your own voice
carries the weight it does
when you speak my worth back to me,
understood that your presence
isn’t just showing up
but showing the way—
We’d be dangerous.
Not reckless, but relentless.
Not blind, but blazing.
We’d stop apologizing
for taking up space
and start building monuments
in the rooms they said
we’d never enter.
We’d quit waiting for permission
from bodies that betray us,
from clocks that mock us,
from a world that measures worth
in steady hands and straight lines.
Our only enemy would be time—
that motherf#$%er
who steals hours from pill bottles,
who decides what’s “too late”
and “not enough.”
But even time would have to respect this:
two people who found each other’s fire
and finally turned it inward,
two flames that stopped
warming everyone else’s hands
and started burning
their own paths forward.
Unstoppable.
Not because we’d be perfect—
but because we’d finally be
as fierce with ourselves
as we’ve always been
with each other.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​