The Hollow & the Holy ❤️‍🔥

✨A Prayer✨

He touches her,

not with reverence—

but with a hunger born of drought.

His hands, calloused by red clay and regret,

dig for love like it’s something buried

beneath her skin.

He calls it passion.

But it is power—

shaped by years of scorched summers,

where boys were broken in pews

and taught to fear their own longing.

Where softness was scolded with scripture,

and desire was buried beneath sermons

spoken louder than love.

He learned to bow to rules,

but never to awe.

To confess sins

he was too young to name.

To shame his body

before he could even call it his.

So he grew—

not with roots, but armor.

Not with truth, but silence.

Not with peace, but wounds deeper than the holler.

He has walked barefoot

on sun-cracked dirt that remembers blood.

He has kissed women

the way the wind carves the dunes—

fast, thoughtless,

vanishing.

The wild sand still clings to his bones,

from places where the waves whisper secrets

he never stayed long enough to hear.

And the wind still howls his name

from the peaks he once climbed,

trying to prove he wasn’t afraid to fall.

But he never fell.

He only ran.

He is a man who climbs women

like mountains he cannot name—

for conquest, not communion.

He hides behind the weight of his body

so he won’t feel the weight of his sorrow.

And she—

the wild and holy woman—

feels it.

She feels the ghost in his gaze,

the emptiness dressed in desire,

the boy who was never held

and never told

that his softness was sacred.

There is grief in that.

Grief for the man who was taught

to conquer his tenderness.

Grief for the soul

who mistook intimacy for invasion.

Grief for the fire

that was never tended—only feared.

But oh…

if he ever stopped running—

if he let the wind strip him bare,

and let the clay cover him like baptism,

if he stood still long enough

to hear the mountain echo back his name…

He would remember.

He would remember the boy

who dreamed beneath wide-open skies.

He would remember the prayer

that left his mouth when no one was listening.

And he would kneel.

Not to her—

but to truth.

To softness.

To the holy ache of being known.

Because a man

who chases vulnerability instead of escape,

who holds his pain like a compass,

who cloaks himself not in ego,

but in sacred surrender—

that man becomes holy.

That man becomes the thunder

that blesses the rain.

The silence that finally speaks.

The fire that warms, not burns.

That man,

is worth waiting for.

Broken Mirror 🪞

✨ A Reckoning and a Return ✨

I used to ask how to make a million by thirty—

as if the number in my account would finally fill the empty silence in my chest

that I never dared to name.

I asked how to double it by thirty-five—

because more felt like the only answer I could control

in a world that kept demanding a version of me I wasn’t even sure I liked.

I asked how to hack the system,

how to beat the odds,

how to outwork the weak and dominate the field—

as if life was a game I could win

without ever playing with my heart on the table.

I searched for secrets on how to be alpha—

how to walk into a room and own it

without needing to actually belong in it.

I asked how to make her want me again—

not how to be worthy of that wanting,

but how to seduce her back into the story

where I was the sun and she was just another orbit.

I wanted the blueprint for building empires,

for scaling success like a mountain without oxygen,

for automating desire,

for turning emotions into leverage,

and people into pawns.

And yes—

I wanted to conquer women.

Not hold them. Not know them.

But conquer.

To bed them like trophies,

like victories to mount on the walls of my ego.

I wanted to taste power in their submission,

to see my reflection in their need,

to use their softness as a balm for my ache—

and then walk away when they became too real.

I called it freedom.

But it was fear.

A fear of being known.

A fear of being needed in ways I never learned to meet.

So I took what I could,

and discarded what I didn’t understand.

⸻

But when the silence got too loud

and her eyes stopped searching mine

 for a trace of the man she once believed in—

something shifted.

She didn’t cry this time.

She didn’t beg, didn’t plead, didn’t scream.

She just… stopped.

Stopped waiting.

Stopped softening.

Stopped handing me her soul in pieces I never bothered to hold.

She used to worship me—

not the man I truly was,

but the myth I wrapped myself in

so I wouldn’t have to look too closely at the damage underneath.

And now…

she doesn’t even care who I’m sleeping with.

She doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t need to know—

because she’s not trying to save

 what never saved her.

She doesn’t care anymore.

Because I never really cared about her.

Not in the way a woman like her needed to be seen,

held,

heard.

And the truth is—

she was always my mirror.

So if she stopped caring,

it wasn’t about her absence.

It was about mine.

I never cared for her,

because I had never learned how to care for myself.

And now that the mirror no longer reflects devotion—

only distance—

I’m forced to look at the space I never filled.

⸻

So I came back—

not with pride, but with questions that tasted like rust and repentance.

How do I speak to my daughter

in a way that lets her stay whole

instead of making her afraid to be soft?

What does it mean to be a man

who doesn’t lead with fear, fists, or formulas—

but with presence?

Why does my throat tighten

when I want to cry

but can still hear my father’s voice calling me weak

from a place he never healed?

How do I stop hurting the people I love

just because I never learned how to hold my own pain?

How do I show up

if I don’t know who I am without the grind?

How do I offer love

if I don’t trust I’m worthy of receiving it?

And—

Who is Sophia?

Why does that name stir something in me

like a memory buried beneath my bones,

like a woman-shaped truth I tried to outgrow but never could?

⸻

Now I kneel.

Not in defeat,

but in devotion—

not to her,

but to the altar of my own unclaimed soul.

The mirror shattered long before I did,

It no longer reflects emotion—

only distance—

I’m forced to look at the space I never filled.

But I am picking up the pieces now

with hands that are finally ready to bleed.

Because I see it clearly:

It wasn’t her anger that pushed me away—

it was my own refusal to evolve.

To soften without collapsing.

To feel without fleeing.

To love without owning.

⸻

Let this be my offering.

Let this be my reckoning.

I don’t want to be worshiped.

I want to be witnessed.

I don’t want control.

I want connection.

I don’t want to be carried.

I want to carry what is mine,

with strength that comes from soul,

not from silence.

I don’t want her to burn for me anymore.

I want to build a life where we both can burn

without being consumed.

This is what I offer now—

not perfection.

Not performance.

But truth.

Because I am not trying to win her back.

I am trying to find the man

she never had the chance to meet.