# Shackled by Broken Vows

Here I am, drowning in a hell I never chose—my lungs filling with the bitter waters of abandonment. I gasp for air, but there is none. Just the suffocating reality that crawls into my chest every morning when I wake to empty sheets and deafening silence. I didn’t volunteer for this torment. I didn’t raise my hand when fate asked who wanted to be hollowed out and discarded. And yet, here I stand, sentenced to a life I never agreed to—existing in rooms where the echoes of what was haunt every corner, sleeping in a bed that remains cold on one side, speaking to walls that never answer back.

Why?

Because I believed. Because I stood before God, before witnesses, and made a covenant—a vow not of convenience, not of fleeting emotion, but of eternal commitment. I sealed myself to another soul in a bond that was supposed to be unbreakable, sacred, absolute. But what I believed to be carved into the foundations of existence itself—words that carried the weight of heaven—were treated like pencil on paper, easily erased, rewritten, tossed aside as if they meant nothing.

I am crucified on the cross of my own conviction, my hands and feet pierced by the nails of loyalty to something everyone else has deemed disposable. There is no resurrection waiting for me. No rolling away of the stone. This tomb is permanent. The air grows staler with each passing day as I realize there is no escape, no reset button, no way to unshackle myself from the wreckage of what I still believe to be holy.

This is my sentence now.

Condemned to solitary confinement because someone else decided that "forever" had an expiration date. That "in sickness and in health" came with conditions. That "till death do us part" was nothing more than poetic filler, a romanticized illusion, not a binding oath. And so here I remain—chained to the ruins—while the one who swore those same words walks free, unburdened, untouched by the weight of broken promises.

And what claws at my insides worst of all? The world celebrates it.

People swap partners like seasonal fashion trends. They upgrade spouses like smartphones. They discard relationships the moment they require sacrifice, the moment they demand real effort, real commitment. And I watch from my prison cell as they toast to their "new beginnings," their "finding themselves," their "fresh starts"—all euphemisms for betrayal dressed up as empowerment.

I hate it.

I hate them.

I hate with such visceral force that it makes me sick, makes me tremble with a rage that has no outlet, no place to go. I hate their weakness, their selfishness masquerading as self-care. I hate how they've turned love into a transaction, an experience to be consumed, a product with a return policy. I hate how they’ve made me invisible, how my loyalty to my vows is seen as foolish rather than honorable. I hate how they talk about “moving on” as if commitment were just a temporary stop on the journey of their self-indulgence.

But what makes my bones splinter within my flesh is the hatred I reserve for myself.

For being the one left holding the tattered remnants of something that was supposed to last forever. For being the one whose skin is still branded with promises while everyone else's has healed without a scar. For being forced to choose between my soul and my sanity—knowing that breaking my vows might free me from this isolation but would also make me exactly what I despise.

So here I sit, in the ruins of what was supposed to be, not because I chose it, but because it was the only option left for someone who still believes that vows spoken before God should mean something.

There is no redemption arc for me.

No second chance. No dramatic third-act rescue. No "it gets better." This is my reality—a life sentence in the prison of my own honor, in a world that has decided nothing needs to last. My bed remains half-empty. My arms ache from embracing nothing but memories. My future is a wasteland stretching endlessly before me, a barren expanse of solitude.

And so my epitaph has already been written:

"Here lies one who kept their promise."

And in the silence of my exile, the only sound left is the hollow ringing of wedding bells that meant nothing… to anyone but me.

I was not meant for boxes

I was designed to shine

I am Dusty Ray

I am not disposable

I am not silicone

I am human

I am flesh

I am blood

I am purpose

I am divine 

And I will be seen

-Dusty Ray 

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