Sinking Sand

I don’t blame them now for what was done,

I sketched the lines they walked upon,

I bowed my head, concealed the scar,

And kept on masking who they are.

I turned betrayals into “small rain,”

And dressed up loss, to soften the pain,

I gathered ashes, called them gold,

And wondered why my hands grew cold.

But they were constant, stayed the same,

Cause I’m the one who changed the frame,

Editing storms to make them mild,

Protecting the hurt, the unhealed child.

It ate me alive, bit by bit, 

I muted a spark that was meant to be lit,

It poisoned the well where truth should flow,

And left a shell with nothing to show.

For Love that requires a swallowed tongue,

Is only a cage where curtains hung,

And peace that steals your living breath,

Is compliance draped in quiet death.

So now I ask what taught my hand,

To build a home on sinking sand?

What leads my thirst to empty streams,

And crown the silence in my dreams?

Now healing’s not a heroic fire,

It’s humble truth, it’s calling desire,

It’s loving myself enough to say,

I will not give my spirit away.

Cathrine Hottran 2025