He didn't touch me,
but his shadow did,
long before I knew the weight of a man's hands,
before I learned to kiss with my eyes closed
so I couldn't see myself breaking.
Love feels like a warning now,
a velvet noose wrapped in petals,
each thorn pressing closer the longer I stay.
How can I crave what terrifies me?
How can I want a flame
that I know will leave me ash?
I dream of softness,
of whispers beneath the moonlight,
but the echoes of what could be
taste like the pastâ
bitter, metallic,
like blood I never bled.
There's beauty in the chaos,
they say,
but my beauty feels borrowed,
a facade painted over fractures.
Every time he smiles,
I think of running,
but my feet stay planted
in the garden of bruised roses
I've cultivated from fear.
I've never been touched,
not really,
but I feel the ghosts of hands
that were never mine,
the weight of love
I've never dared to carry.
And yet,
I linger on the edge of it all,
hoping one day,
the taste of him won't remind me
of the storm
I've been trying to forget.