We walk into love
carrying soft and broken pieces,
hoping someone will hold them
without turning away.
The ghosts stay close,
waiting for a familiar ache
to let them in again.
We call it healing,
but some wounds
just learn how to breathe.
I’m not bitter.
But I am marked.
A quiet flinch
when kindness comes too close.
A stillness
where trust used to live.
Love feels different now
too many choices,
too little depth.
We touch,
we run,
we pretend it doesn’t sting.
Scars do not fade.
They soften.
They whisper.
They remind us
we survived.
No comments:
Post a Comment