Poem: If He Has No Grit

Don't ask me to bow to a man
whose spine is built from borrowed steel,
who speaks in promises but folds
when life demands something real.

I don't care if his wallet sings
with the voices of a thousand notes---
if his eyes go dim when storms arrive,
he's nothing but a castle built on ghosts.

Give me the one with bleeding knuckles,
with dirt under nails from clawing his way up.
Let him be loud, messy, unrefined---
but damn it, let him *try*.

Because when the fire dies in his chest,
we're not lovers---we're just guests
in a hollow home
of what-could-have-been.

And I---
I would rather sleep alone
than beside a man
who won't fight for light
when the dark caves in.

---

I don't care if he's broke. But if he's got no grit---no fire, no fight, no will to try---then we're already doomed.