I will mend you.
This is not thunder, but a whisper,
gentle as a leaf falling on quiet water.
The words are threads placed soft upon frayed edges,
waiting to weave where you once unraveled.
Not a rescue—no. A glance. A presence.
Then the slow warmth of hours stitched back,
like hands repairing the loom of your soul.
I will mend you,
and it won’t be with grand gestures.
It will be the daily breath of kindness,
the steady pulse of small reminders—
Do you remember what strength feels like?
Can you see how deeply you matter?
Love, not vinegar, but spice for the feast.
Promises, ripening like autumn fruit.
Each hour coaxing light back into your eyes—
until you wonder again what it means to be free.
Do not wait for explosions of joy.
The truest healing comes in rooms with doors
just wide enough for hope to enter.
I will mend you.
It was always a homecoming without banners,
a quiet rebuilding—patient as growth.
Each day, uncoiling the barbed wire of doubt,
until sleep becomes a welcome friend,
and not a fleeting escape.
Time drips, slow as honey,
but this time, untainted—drop by drop—
until it restores you.
Not just the hours, but the spaces between,
where silence no longer stings.
And still, you stay.
Not from fear, but from something more:
The knowing that this mending
was always a part of your story,
written beneath every wound.
Sean
Edits by
-Hermit King-
