I’m not interested in your pain having purpose, my Friend, only in the space to grieve what has been done to you. Let no one call these harrowing days a hallowing. The broken flesh is not a fruit to harvest. The tortured earth is not a fortune to reap. The spilled perfume is not a baptism to hoard. These days are not wedding wines but bitter herbs, and — oh, my Friend — long after your pain takes its last breath, the acridity will linger in my mouth. No matter how often your pain recurs, it will never be a ritual. No matter how systemically your abuse is observed, it will never be a rite. Heartbreak is not your sanctification or mine; it is only heartbreak. The torn curtain is only a torn curtain, not a mantle to parade. And when someday, my Friend, your anguished days are bandaged and dressed in glory, it will be only glory — not purpose. Horrors have no purpose beyond their own selfishness. You are blessed and wondrous with no obligation to justify what should not be, what should never have been. Leave the excuses to argue amongst themselves. Curl up in this hollow, away from the storm, and I will meet you there to grieve and wait until the torment passes.
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