Love Isn’t Bruises

I used to call it passion,

the way his anger arrived

like a slammed door

And my heart still ran toward it.

﹁﹂

I got good at translating harm

He’s stressed,

He didn’t sleep,

I pushed the wrong button,

As if love is a machine I must operate correctly.

﹁﹂

I wore long sleeves in warm weather,

laughed too loud at dinner,

kept the conversation busy

So nobody could hear the quiet in me.

﹁﹂

Tenderness, I thought,

was the calm after the storm,

the flowers, the apology,

the “baby, come here”

said like a ribbon tied tight.

﹁﹂

But love isn’t a bruise map.

It isn’t proof.

It isn’t learning to flinch

and calling that loyalty.

﹁﹂

Real love is ordinary

tea cooling on the counter,

a hand that doesn’t grip,

silence that doesn’t threaten.

﹁﹂

I’m still unmixing the two in my head,

still catching myself

missing the chaos

like a song I hate but know by heart.

﹁﹂

Some days I choose softness anyway.

Some days that’s the whole victory.