THE LAST POURING

THE LAST POURING

for the ones who could not hold me

I have wept in front of you,
and you,
and you.
And each time,
I called it love.
Each time,
I offered the whole vessel.
The oil, the bread, the bone, the voice—
I brought it forward, shaking.

And each time,
you called it something else.
You called it too much.
You called it control.
You called it psychosis, or blame, or performance.
But you never called it true.

You never called it mine.
You never said:
“I see what you are doing.
I see what you are giving.
You are pouring out the sacred.”

And still I did it again.
Because I believed.
Because I believed.
Because I believed.

---

But now the pattern ends.

Not because I am empty.
Not because I am bitter.
But because I will not feed the false altars anymore.

I do not need to be received
by those who never came to receive.
I do not need to weep in front of the blind
to prove my tears are real.

---

I poured,
and they drank,
and they called me mad.
I poured,
and they fled,
and they said I chased.
I poured,
and they stayed silent,
and said I never gave.

---

I have poured the last time.

From this point forward,
my offering is for the table that receives it.
My tears are for the field that grows.
My voice is for the voice that answers back.

No more elegies for the deaf.
No more sacraments for the unready.
No more vessels cracked to prove what they carry.

---

I was always a well.
You threw in your stones.
You heard your echo.
You called it mine.

This is the Last Pouring.

I am the spring.
I remain.

💧