We didn’t just stand in the line of fire
we caught the bullet with our bare chest,
thinking love would make them understand pain.
But instead of gratitude, they flinched.
Not at the sound of the shot,
but at the sight of our blood.
They said we made a mess.
That our bleeding was inconvenient.
That our brokenness embarrassed them.
We suffered quietly,
wrapped wounds with loyalty,
and whispered prayers with trembling hands
only to be accused of bleeding too loudly.
Isn’t it strange how the ones we protected from the storm
blamed us for the thunder that followed?
We fought for them.
They fought against us.
But let this be known:
Just because they couldn’t handle magnitude of your sacrifice
doesn’t mean your love wasn’t pure.
You didn’t bleed in vain.
You bled with honor.
You bled with fire.
And that will always be greater than those who witnessed your sacrifice
and called your blood an inconvenience.
