The T

Stone me, with words not rocks, with silence sharper than the nails they drove. Drag me through streets of broken glass, where mercy once lived, but fled. Lay me on the T — not of timber, but of tongues, not of iron, but of indifference. Stretch my arms to the doubts, bend my knees to the lies, crown me with thorns of "almost good enough." Forgive them, I whisper, though their hands carve wounds unseen. Forgive them, I cry, though their hearts are too calloused to feel. The T is not wood but burden, a weight invisible, carried by every soul who dared to love, to hope, to heal. So stone me — and lay me on the T, but know: every bruise is a blossom, every scar is a psalm, and I will rise, even if it’s just inside your memory.