Amelia James Poetry

We were two sides of the same coin,
polished by his lies,
cast into a game we did not agree to play.
He spun us both in his web,
each thread a whispered promise,
each knot tied to another betrayal.
We hung there, suspended,
two strangers bound by a truth
neither of us could fully hold.

I once thought you the thief,
a shadow slipping into my life,
taking what was mine.
But now I see you—
a mirror, cracked like my own,
reflecting the same grief,
the same betrayal etched deep.

His lies were threads spun into fabric,
a tapestry we both wore unknowingly.
Mine weighed heavy with his contradictions,
yours hung loose with his half-truths.
We were bound by this cloth,
sewn together by a hand
that unraveled us both.

My anger was a fire I could not quench.
It burned through the silence,
consuming walls and building others.
I wielded my words like knives,
each one seeking to cut you down,
to carve sense from the chaos.
But I see now they landed not at his feet
but in your hands,
leaving scars we both must carry.

You hurt me, yes,
but not with intention.
Your words, sharp as mine,
were born of the same wound.
We were not rivals

but reflections of the same betrayal,
two storms colliding,
feeding off each other’s fury,
turning the hurt inward, outward,
anywhere but toward him—
the one who set the sky alight.

He is to blame,
the weaver of this tragedy,
but we cannot pretend
our hands are clean.
My anger stoked flames
where silence might have soothed.
Your words cut where healing might have begun.
We are neither innocent nor guilty,
just human—
hurting, breaking,
trying to make sense of the rubble.

Forgiveness is a mountain I climb slowly,
its peak shrouded in mist.
I long to lay down the weight of anger,
to feel the lightness of release,
yet my feet are bloodied by the stones of memory.
The wounds you left—
not meant to destroy,
yet sharp all the same—
linger in the quiet moments
when I try to forget and fail.

Forgiveness does not erase.
It does not unmake the hurt,
nor does it close the doors
through which pain once entered.
Instead, it asks me to build
something new from the ruins,
to find space for healing
alongside the ache that remains.

Forgiveness is not a gift I give to you

but one I offer myself.

It does not ask that I forget the sting of your words

or dismiss the ache you left behind.

It asks that I make room for both—

the wound and the healing,

the pain and the release.

It lets me hold the hurt you caused

without letting it define us,

to see your humanity through the scars we share.

I see you now.
Not as my destroyer,
but as another who stood in the ruins,
wondering which pieces were hers to pick up.
I see your pain,
your anger,
your truth—
woven from the same thread as mine,
tangled, frayed,
never whole.

And so, I let go.
Not of the hurt,
but of the blame.
I hold no hatred, no scorn,
only the ache of understanding.
We were both betrayed,
both shattered,
both seeking solace
in a world he set ablaze.

May we find the strength to rise,
not as rivals,
but as survivors,
our truths no longer at war.
May we find peace in the ruins,
and leave his lies to ash.

-Amelia James