I don’t beg to be loved.
I know my worth.
I feel it when I’m not wanted.
I see when there’s no seat for me—
and I don’t force one.
I don’t shrink.
I don’t twist myself into something easier to keep.
My knees don’t bend for people.
They don’t bend for attention.
They don’t bend for love that has to be chased.
My knees are only for begging Jesus.
But I don’t leave at the first sign of hard, either.
If I love you, I stay.
I try.
I fight for it.
I give everything I have—until I know, without a doubt, I gave it all.
Because my love isn’t simple.
It’s not light.
It’s not easy to carry.
I can be hard to love—
but I love harder than most ever will.
I’m not surface-level.
I don’t do halfway.
I don’t love with one foot out the door.
When I’m in, I’m in.
Fully.
Deeply.
Without hesitation.
My love is intense.
It asks for honesty.
It demands presence.
It sees everything—
and still chooses you.
It’s rare.
Hard to find.
Hard to forget.
And once it’s gone,
you don’t replace it—you feel the loss of it.
Because I love through the hard days.
Through the silence.
Through the moments that make people question everything.
I don’t run when it gets heavy.
I don’t disappear when it gets real.
I show up.
I stay steady.
I hold on—until there’s nothing left worth holding.
I love with devotion.
With faith.
With grace.
I forgive—more than I probably should.
I show mercy—when it’s not always returned.
And if I ever drop to my knees,
it won’t be to ask someone to stay.
My knees are only for begging Jesus.
But don’t mistake that for weakness.
Because I have a limit.
And once I reach it, I’m done.
No begging.
No chasing.
No looking back.
Just silence.
Where something powerful used to be.
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