What I Can Give

What I Can Give

By Annette Camp 

July 6, 2026

I met you online August 19th of 2025,

before either of us knew what shape

this would take,

before conversations became comforting rituals,

before your name became part of my every day.

We moved toward each other

one choice at a time,

learning the terrain of each other's hearts,

finding comfort, finding laughter,

finding something that neither of us

could pretend was casual.

And then, six weeks ago,

we stopped standing at the edge of it

and called it what it was.

A partnership.

A promise.

A decision to build something lasting.

Tonight, my heart hurts that I cannot

give you everything you deserve.

You deserve the certainty of marriage.

You deserve the legal protections that

should never be a question for a lesbian couple.

You deserve the security of knowing that

someone is standing beside you and saying,

without hesitation,

"I choose you only for life, as your wife"

You deserve every safeguard,

every recognition,

every assurance that a love

like ours should come with.

And I know there are places where

I fall short of that.

Not because I do not love you.

Not because I do not see your worth.

Not because I cannot imagine a lifetime

of caring for you.

What I can give you is honesty.

I can give you my presence.

I can give you the truth that since August,

you have mattered to me in a way that

changed the landscape of my life.

I can tell you that being your partner is

not something I take lightly.

I can tell you that your happiness matters to me,

that your fears matter to me,

that your future matters to me.

I can tell you that every day I am grateful that

our paths crossed when they did.

And while I cannot offer every promise

that you deserve,

please know that the love I give you is real.

It is thoughtful.

It is deliberate.

It is true.

You have given me laughter,

joy, quality time, and

a place in your heart.

I do not take any of it for granted.

I only hope that when you look at us,

you can see what I see,

Two women who found each other unexpectedly.

Two hearts that kept choosing each other.

And a love that, although imperfect

in its circumstances,

it is not in its sincerity.

Hugged and Heard

Hugged and Heard 

By Annette Camp 

May 6, 2026

Before words assemble themselves,

arms arrive. Not to fix.

Just a chosen gesture.

There is silence. Not sentences.

Being held does not mean

being contained.

I am open. Made wider.

My voice is received.

My words invited this.

There is clarity in

this moment: Love.

And something shifts.

Letting my words exist

became an invitation.

My honesty was met

with understanding.

Willingness on my part

to place my truth where

others could see it with

unmistakable care.

I feel change take root

beneath my skin.

Open to what

continues to unfold.

I stay with the

stillness of this

moment feeling

hugged and heard.

The Weight of the Wedding Ring

For those of you who know my story, I finally got the words to express what I felt that day. For those who do not know, I came out as a lesbian at 16 years old. At 23, I found myself without a home and a guy who asked me 3 times to marry him. At that time, I gave in, believing I didn't have another option. The poem explains my feelings on the day of my wedding to a man I barely knew.

The Weight of the Wedding Ring 

By Annette Camp

May 1, 2026

I stand at the door before the ceremony.

My mother asks, "Why the tears?"

I dare not say they are the release

of what I do not speak.

My words have already been decided.

I do not want myself on the stage.

Others rise around me.

Their faces blur.

Expectation pulls at my heart

as the tears continue to flow.

Inside myself, I keep asking,

"What are you doing?"

I walk forward carefully as though

the floor might give way beneath me.

My knees weaken with every step.

My heart is heavy.

My terror is hidden.

My doubts continue without rest.

I think about the permanence

of this one act.

Marriage feels like a narrow bridge

everyone told me to cross.

A husband.

Children.

A proper home arranged

beneath God's approval.

The altar waits for my approach.

The congregation listens

to words I cannot hear anymore.

The room feels distant from my body.

My bouquet trembles in my hands.

When the vows begin,

my chest tightens so violently

I think I might faint

before the words are finished.

Then the ring.

Gold shining.

Heavy beyond proportion.

The moment it touches my finger

it slips from my hand.

I want to say no.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just one honest word

finally allowed to breathe.

Denial is not holy.

Yet, I am told submission is.

Eyes are watching.

Cameras are rolling.

Someone retrieves the ring.

So I swallow the word

that burns all the way down.

I let him slide the band

onto my finger where the

metal settles like the

closing of a gate.

I stand there silently

as everyone rises in celebration.

I hide my grief and wonder

if God can feel the weight

of the wedding ring.

What Remains in the Stillness

What Remains in the Stillness 

By Annette Camp

February 20, 2026

Grief arrived quietly, in stillness,

in the absence of familiar sounds.

No soft padding across the floor.

No warm weight leaning into my side.

Yet, I felt — I am here.

This place feels wider than before.

Corners echo.

A hand still reaches down

out of habit,

searching for fur that is no longer here.

Love does not vanish when a body does.

It lingers in doorframes scratched by joy.

In the worn patch of carpet by the window.

In the leash hanging like a question

by the door.

Waking up sobbing.

The pillow soaked.

Shoulders wet.

Tears streaming down.

The night has wrung something out—

not the love,

never the love.

Grief is love with nowhere to land.

So it moves through the body instead.

A tide that rises without asking,

that leaves salt on your skin.

A remembrance carried of a companion

through seasons of ordinary miracles.

Rain walks.

Shared glances.

The steady comfort of breathing in sync.

And in the end,

something heavier is carried:

the courage to let go

so suffering will not stay.

That is love too.

Healing does not mean forgetting.

It means speaking the name

without your voice breaking in two.

It means smiling at the memory

of muddy paws and reckless joy.

It means understanding

that the bond has changed shape,

not disappeared.

Now in the waking,

there are mornings with fewer tears.

There is space on the side, yes,

but also, gratitude.

The ache has softened

into something almost warm.

A quiet companionship of memory.

And somewhere inside

the love still runs.

Tail high.

Heart open.

Memories 

that were shared.

Real.

Good.

And always belonging to me.