My heart is not a battlefield,
it’s a chapel split in two—
one side echoes with the vows I made,
the other whispers, I choose you.
I never knew love could arrive
after the ink had long since dried,
when duty had already built its home
and hope had nowhere left to hide.
You came like sunlight through stained glass,
painting colors I had never seen,
awakening a quiet ache
for all that life could have been.
And now I carry both at once:
the weight of honor, fierce and true,
and the fragile dream that somewhere
there’s a life meant to be lived with you.
People say the right path is clear,
that promises should never bend.
But no one speaks of breaking slowly,
of mourning what cannot begin.
Because love isn’t always wanting more;
sometimes it’s wanting what is right.
Sometimes it’s standing in the darkness
while your soul reaches for the light.
I deserve a love that holds me,
one that chooses me each day,
where I don’t have to silence pieces
of my heart to find my way.
Yet I also know the gravity
of every promise I once gave.
Commitment is a sacred thing,
not something love alone can save.
So here I stand between two truths,
both asking something deep of me—
one says, “Honor who you’ve been,”
the other, “Become who you’re meant to be.”
If my heart has shattered,
it’s because it’s pulled by grace and fire,
torn between the life I’ve promised
and the life my soul desires.
Perhaps the cruelest kind of love
isn’t love that fades away,
but love that comes at the wrong moment
and asks your heart to pay.
So I gather every broken piece,
though none fit quite the same.
Praying that whatever road I walk,
I won’t be haunted by the blame.
And if someday these wounds become
the scars that shape my story’s art,
let them remind me this one truth:
The deepest tears are often shed
not because we loved too much,
but because we longed for a love
we believed we were worthy of,
while trying with all we had
to remain faithful to the promises
that once held our heart.
-A
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