Kept: The Magna Carta of Self-Worth — The Unbreakable Declaration

Kept

The Magna Carta of Self-Worth — The Unbreakable Declaration

Hear this.

I was not yours to manage.
I was not yours to rotate through.
I was not yours to keep in shadows
while you basked in daylight with others.

I was not yours to hold in reserve.
I was not yours to pocket like a secret.
I was not yours to file away under just in case
while you lived your real life somewhere else.

But you kept me.

You kept me like something precious you never intended to honor.
You kept me like a door you wanted left open
while you walked freely through every other one.
You kept me hooked.
You kept me entangled.
You kept me waiting.

Always.
Waiting.

Why?

Why did you keep me so close
if you were never going to choose me?

Why did you hold on so tightly
if you had no intention of arriving?

Why did you keep me so connected,
so in the mix,
so woven into the fabric of your life,
if I was never truly going to be
the life you chose?

Why did you keep the line taut
if you were never going to reel it in?

Why did you let me believe—
let me invest—
let me build—
if the foundation was always sand?

Why?

Because you needed me there.
Not chosen. Kept.
Because kept suits the coward.
Because kept costs nothing.
Because kept means you never have to be brave enough
to fully claim someone.
Because kept means you get to keep your options
while someone else surrenders theirs.

You kept me.
And I let you.
Because I thought kept was love.

I was wrong.

You kept me as your backup.
Your convenience.
Your in-between.
The one who arrived for you no matter what
no matter what
and you knew that.

You counted on that.

You used that.

I was there when it was hard.
I was there when others weren't.
I was there in the hours no one else showed up for.
I answered when you called.
Every time.
Without question.
Without condition.
Without making you wait.

And you?

You were sometimes there.
You sometimes answered.
You sometimes arrived.

Sometimes.

As if sometimes is the same as always.
As if occasionally is the same as devotion.
As if partial presence
is the same as choosing someone.

It is not.

It was never the same.
And somewhere deep in my bones,
I always knew.

You indulged yourself without me.

You made your choices with others
while I waited.
You lived in pleasure
while I lived in patience.
You moved freely through your days
while I held still,
holding space,
holding hope,
holding faith
that you would eventually see me clearly
and choose me.
Fully.
Without hesitation.

You never did.

You chose others over me
and expected me to be there when you returned.
And you were right.
I was.

Every time.

That is on me.
But what you did with that faithfulness—
that is on you.
Forever.

We were married—
and still I was kept.
Not chosen.

The marriage itself became the hook.
My belief in it.
My devotion to it.
My sacred, unshakeable faith in what I thought we were building—
that became your leverage.

You knew I believed in what we had.
You knew I would not walk away easily.
You knew my love was not casual,
not conditional,
not something I switched off and on.

And you used that.

You weaponized my loyalty.
You used my faith like a chain.
You used my love like a leash.
You used my devotion as proof that I would stay—
no matter how little you gave,
no matter how far you wandered,
no matter how many times you chose
anything and anyone
over me.

You thought love was your safety net.
You thought I was your safety net.
And for too long—
I was.

But a safety net is not a love story.
A safety net is something you fall back on
when everything else fails.
And I was not put on this earth
to be your fallback.

I was not put here to be kept.

I believed in mutuality.

I believed that what I gave,
you would mirror.
I believed that the love I poured out
would pour back.
I believed we were aligned—
two people building something real,
something chosen,
something sacred.

I thought my presence mattered.

It didn't.

Not the way it should have.
Not the way I deserved.
Not in the way that says—
"you are the one I want,
the one I am moving toward,
the one I choose above all others,
every single day,
without wavering."

I never had that from you.

I had kept.
Dressed up as love.
Disguised as partnership.
Hidden inside a marriage
that was built, in part,
to make sure I would never leave.

And I almost didn't.

I arrived for you.

Every. Single. Time.

Not sometimes.
Not when it was convenient.
Not when there was no one better available.

Every time.

I arrived in the moments that cost me something.
I arrived when I was tired.
I arrived when I was hurting.
I arrived when part of me already knew
something was wrong,
something was off,
something was not adding up—

and I arrived anyway.

Because that is what chosen people do.
That is what love does.
That is what I believed we were.

But we were not.

I was chosen by no one.
I was kept by someone
who needed me exactly where I was—
close enough to call on,
far enough from the center
to never threaten the life they were truly living.

I was kept in the margins.
And I mistook the margins for the main story.

I will never make that mistake again.

I am awake now.

Wide awake.
Eyes open.
Ground solid beneath my feet.

And I am here to tell you—
loudly,
clearly,
without apology—

I know the difference now.

I know the difference between being kept
and being chosen.

They are not the same.
They will never be the same.

Being kept is being held in reserve.
Being chosen is being held in reverence.

Being kept is existing for someone else's convenience.
Being chosen is being someone else's priority.

Being kept is waiting.
Being chosen is arriving—
both of you—
at the same time,
toward each other,
without hesitation.

Being kept is a hook.
Being chosen is a home.

I know the difference now.
I am wise to it now.
And that wisdom?

That was the only good thing
to come out of what you did to me.

I will not be kept again.

Not by anyone.
Not for any reason.
Not under any disguise.

Not by someone who calls when convenient
and disappears when it is not.

Not by someone who wants my devotion
but offers their own only in fractions.

Not by someone who places me
just close enough to hold
and just far enough to hide.

Not by someone who uses my love,
my faith,
my beliefs,
my marriage,
my soul—
as a hook to ensure I never go anywhere.

Not by someone who chose others
while banking on the certainty
that I would be waiting.

I am done waiting.

Only those who choose me
have a place with me.

Only those who arrive for me
the way I arrive for them.

Only those who answer for me
the way I answered for them.

Only those who would never—
not for a single moment—
allow me to feel like a backup,
a secret,
a convenience,
an in-between.

They will not falter.

They will make it clear—
in their actions,
in their choices,
in the way they move through the world—
that I am chosen.
First.
Above all others.
Every single day.

Not because I demand it.
But because they cannot imagine it any other way.

That is what being chosen looks like.
That is the only thing I will accept.

They will be worthy of my devotion,
my time,
my presence.
Not because they are perfect—
but because they choose me
even when it costs them something.
Even when it's hard.
Even when every other option is standing right there.

They choose me anyway.

That is what I deserve.
That is what I require.
That is the only door I will open.

I am not a moon.
I am the sun.

I rise whether or not you are watching.
I burn whether or not you are ready.
I illuminate everything—
every shadow,
every hiding place,
every corner where you kept your secrets—

and I will not dim myself
for someone who prefers the dark.

I am not a consolation prize.
I am the whole prize.

I am not a backup plan.
I am the only plan worth making.

I am not a secret.
I am the headline.

I am not something you keep.
I am someone you choose.
Every day.
Loudly.
Proudly.
Without shame.

I am done shrinking.
I am done pretending crumbs are a feast.
I am done mistaking patience for love.
I am done making myself small enough
to fit inside the space you were willing to give me.

I am done believing that if I just gave more

loved more,
waited more,
understood more—
you would finally see me and choose me.

You never were going to.

And that is not a wound anymore.
That is a fact.
A fact that set me free.

I walk now.

Fully.
Loudly.
Proudly.

I walk away from everything that kept me
and toward everything that will choose me.

I walk into the light of my own life—
a life where I am no one's backup,
no one's secret,
no one's in-between.

I walk into the power of my own soul—
a soul that was never broken,
only bent by someone
who was not strong enough to deserve it.

I walk into the hands of someone
who sees me completely,
chooses me completely,
and honors me completely.

No conditions.
No fractions.
No sometimes.

Always.

I am not yours.

I was never truly yours—
not in the way that matters,
not in the way where two people look at each other
and say:

"I choose this,
I choose you,
I choose us,
above everything."

You never said that and meant it.
Not in the way your actions proved.

So let me say it clearly,
in the language you understand—

I am no longer available
to be kept.

I am no longer available
to be managed.

I am no longer available
to be rotated through
like a season you return to
when the others disappoint you.

I am no longer available
to be the one who always answers
for someone who rarely does.

I am no longer available
to arrive for someone
who only sometimes shows up.

I am no longer available
to wait
while someone else indulges themselves
and calls it life.

I am no longer available.

Not to you.
Not to anyone like you.
Not ever again.

I am fire.
I am truth.
I am devotion—
but devotion belongs to me first now.

I choose myself.

I arrive for myself.
I answer for myself.
I show up for myself
the way I always showed up for you—
completely,
without conditions,
without keeping score,
without making myself wait.

I choose myself.

And from that choice—
that sacred, unbreakable choice—
I will build a life
that reflects what I always deserved:

To be seen.
To be selected.
To be chosen.

Not kept.
Never kept again.

I am not kept.
I am chosen.
By me.
First.
Always.

And whoever stands beside me next
will choose me too—
or they will not stand there at all.

This is not a request.
This is not a preference.
This is the Magna Carta of who I am now.
The declaration that cannot be undone.
The law of my life, written in fire, signed in truth:

I will only be chosen.
I will never again be kept.

So it is written.

So it is.