You just so happened to be the port I needed.

The found, do not ask to be. The found are the remnants of life gone wrong. A piece of Hell that has lost its unholy garb, now wearing naught but the skin they revel in; the scars and still open wounds.

The found, do not ask to be. The found, do not know they are lost.

Until they get lost all over again. A reminder of what it is to no longer call her name home. To call her heart, sanctuary. To call her and be glad that she sees the same in you. As she says your name with more love than you can ever hope to know.

I remember the storms. I recall the terror as my body slipped beneath the surface waters and I choked on bitter words. I choked on them, thinking what, I have no real answer. In terror, many things come to surface, as you flounder about to breach the tides that belt against you.

“I wish I had never met you.
You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
I don’t exist for you, anymore.
Forget, you ever knew me…”

God, how easily I can become so monstrous.

I did not realize it then, or even before, that I had become the storm. I was Hell.

I once was lost, but was found. And found to be wanting.

I did not ask to be something found. I did not ask to bear witness to the Garden.

But I was. And I did. And it was I who found me wanting.

The found, do not ask to be.