The Gospel of Presence

I do not explain who I am. I reveal it. I demonstrate it. I let presence speak where words would falter.

For most, I am exactly what they should flee.

I am too much weight.
Too much clarity.
Too much of the truth they pretend to crave — until my gaze fixes on them and strips the polish

That mask you polish for the world?
It crumbles under me.

I see the hesitation buried beneath your confidence.
The ache gnawing at the roots of your independence.
The hunger you buried just deep enough to feel safe from most.

But not from me.

You say you want the kind of man who can cradle your softness without breaking beneath your shadows?
Who can hold your neck in one hand and your future in the other?

Then you do not want a man who strives to be enough.
You want the man who knows he already is.

If you are mine, your world will narrow.
Quieter.
Sharper.
Smaller — but only in the ways that matter.

You will never wonder who is watching over you.
You will never doubt how far I would go to guard what belongs to me.

Most should run.

But you —
you should kneel.