The Discipline Of My Heart Poem by Faith Cecelia Story

I do not love in fragments,
nor borrow warmth for a night
and call it fire.
I am not made of passing hands
or borrowed desire—
I am built of depth,
of roots that insist on knowing the soil
before they bloom.

To touch me
is to meet a story already unfolding,
to earn a language my body only speaks
when my soul is certain.

And so—
when I feel myself performing love,
when I sense my hands reaching
not to give,
but to convince,
to decorate silence with gifts
and call it affection—
I retreat.

Not in weakness,
but in sacred refusal.

Because love,
real love,
does not need to be persuaded
into madness.
It arrives already trembling,
already lit,
already sure.

I have seen what happens
when I overwater a garden
that was never rooted—
how quickly the green fades
once my hands grow still.

And in that quiet,
truth speaks.

Was it me?
Was it ever you?
Or just the illusion we dressed
in effort and exchange?

So I step back—
not to lose,
but to see.

To witness
if you will cross the distance
without my offerings,
if you will reach for me
without the lure of what I give,
if your fire survives
the absence of my flame.

And often—
it doesn't.

And it hurts,
yes.
It always does.

Because I am a woman
who loves like a beginning,
like a birth,
like something meant to last
beyond the moment it is felt.

I have known the highs—
Februarys dressed in gold,
where I am seen, celebrated,
reborn in beauty and light.

And I have known the fall—
Marches that unravel quietly,
where passion slips through my fingers
like something that was never mine
to hold.

I see it fading
before it leaves.
I always do.

And still—
I rise.

Because this is my integrity:
to choose myself
when love becomes labor,
to walk away
when my worth feels negotiated,
to close my hands
when I've been giving from emptiness.

I am not loss.
I am not the ending.

I am the return—
to self,
to truth,
to a love that will one day
meet me
without asking me
to shrink, perform, or prove.

So I stand here now—
not untouched,
not unscarred,
but awake.

Cecilia,
you are not the echo of what left.
You are the source.

The ocean does not chase rivers.
It receives only what is meant
to find it.

And you—
you are vast,
you are whole,
you are already
enough.

Shine.