There’s a story being told about who you are and who I am.

I protest. 

The “truth” you tell yourself about me,
the words you say to me about me …

That’s not my story.
Not my truth. 

So we live in these different worlds,
each of us yearning for a connection of the heart
when our hearts are,
………… essentially 
……………………. disunited.

Love is not enough.
Goodness is not enough.
Desire is, finally, not enough. 

Thoughts and prayers and a willing heart
are not enough.

And I am left without hope
of the harmony
for which I yearn.

There’s a story being told, 
but I protest.
I want a different ending.

The mantle of guilt and shame
you drop on my shoulders
lies heavy with confusion and doubt.

This is not my story. 
Not my truth.

Still,
love remains.

So the story is not yet over.