They Told Me

You told me it was probably me. I already knew. 
You told me to believe. In God. In anything.

You told me to let go.
Trust was dead. So much pain. 
Take it away. I’ll believe you when it’s gone. 
Believe it first, you said.

You told me to forgive. 
Unfair. Impossible rage. But you. 
You did it first. And if you… no it cannot change.

You taught me how to grieve.
Holes grew in the anger, tears fell through. 
Relief. It regenerates.

You told me to repeat. Dedication
to the only thing possible: the process and way.
Why? Why is it this way?

You told me to see lies. Mine.
The programs, hidden, the lies. Again
The programs, hidden. The lies again. 

You told me to speak truth. Change what I could see.
A language made of magic where the magic mostly speaks.

You told me that you loved me.
That I could love myself. You said that I was safe
To show myself to someone else.

With that, a burning rage.  
But you said you understood
You said that was okay.
No matter what I’d done.

You showed me more than told me.
You lived your life, alive and erred.
I learned to watch your soul lead
And followed when I dared.

When we sat to read the stories
And share a cup of coffee
Each week we sat in tarnished glory
of the hundred thousand miles
of learning to set a soul free.