Wax-Seal Vows

I used to give away the whole house
just to prove I had a heart—
let people track mud through my quiet,
wipe their shoes on “my part.”

Now I write in clean sentences.
No extra wounds for style.
I practise no like a small amen—
said plain, said with a smile.

Liquid wax at the edge of my truth,
not to hide it: to hold it.
If you want me, come correct—
if you can’t, I won’t fold it.

—wax-tap. The desk answers back—

I seal what I mean.
I don’t bleed on demand.
I sign my name where it can be seen
and keep the rest in my own hands.

Wax-seal vows on my letters,
so the boundary doesn’t blur.
If you love me, love me better.
If you can’t—
not right now.

I’m done mistaking chaos for chemistry,
done calling scraps a feast.
I can miss you and still cut the cord—
that’s release.

This library taught me simple maths:
what I give should come back—
not as debt, not as drama,
just steady as a track:
a chair that holds its shape,
a voice that doesn’t climb to win,
hands that don’t rummage at my ribs
for entry.

I take the keyring off my throat.
Hang it on the hook by the door.
The chain slides over—metal on metal—
a soft, final no more.

—wax-drip ticks in the hush—

I seal what I mean.
I don’t bleed on demand.
I sign my name where it can be seen
and keep the rest in my own hands.

Wax-seal vows on my letters,
so the boundary doesn’t blur.
If you love me, love me better.
If you can’t—
not right now.

No more waiting at a doorway
I built with my own hands.
I’ll wait for what arrives steady—
not what only understands.

So I address the envelope: To Me.
I fold the page once, then once again.
I tear the old receipt in half—
maybe later, almost, when—
and drop it in the bin like lint.

The seal is warm. I press it down.
A small round sun in molten red.
It cools. It keeps its shape.

Click.

Wax gloss catches the lamp for a second,
then goes still—
a boundary you can hear
even after the room turns quiet.