Seen

"Seen"

Let me be seen

not just the surface sheen

but the sacred scream beneath the silence.

The me I’ve buried beneath laughter and light,

the raw, the cracked Lalique 

aching for touch that doesn’t shatter.

I am not just skin and story.

I am scripture

a verse etched in scars,

a prayer whispered through clenched teeth at midnight,

begging God: “Please, send me someone who won’t flinch at the mess.”

I want to undress

not just clothes,

but centuries of a guarded soul,

pull back the armor I wore like second skin

because this world taught me survival meant silence.

But you…

You walk like you’ve met divinity and shook her hand.

You look at me like the moon looks at the tide

not to own it, but to move it.

You hold space like it’s holy ground,

and I wonder...

could I pour myself into your open palms

and not be dropped?

I want to speak to you in truths too tender for small talk.

Tell you how I flinch at love

because I’ve only known it conditional.

Tell you I cried during a song once,

because the harmony sounded like what Heaven might feel like

if it lived in someone’s arms.

I want to know what it feels like

to not have to heal alone.

To build something that isn’t made of convenience,

but covenant.

Something that prays before it reacts,

that listens deeper than words,

that recognizes spirit before shape.

Because I don’t need perfect

I need present.

I need someone who knows that unconditional love

doesn’t run when the shadows come out,

but lights a candle and says,

“I’m not afraid of your dark.”

Let’s make a sanctuary of each other.

Let’s speak like prophets,

touch like redemption,

forgive like rain.

Let’s write new scriptures with our breath

ones where holy doesn’t mean flawless,

just faithful.

Where we kneel, not in worship of each other,

but beside each other

at the altar of becoming.

Let me be seen.

All of me.

And maybe, just maybe

you’ll see God there too.