i open the curtains
behind my windowsill
so you can glow in the sun—
light spilling over your petals,
straight into my eyes.
they water, of course,
but you look so radiant
i forget to blink.

i breathe you in, and everything burns.
my eyes won’t stop itching,
my chest feels heavy,
my throat a slow flame—
the weight of loving you.
but i never move you.
i let you bloom
right beside me,
because love, i think,
is sometimes choosing the ache.

i light the end to quiet mine;
i fade away, though close by.
the world dissolves behind my eyes,
as i forget how to cry.

i learn to lean in,
play their game,
because it’s easier
than saying no
and watching it get ignored.

i touch like i mean it.
flirt like it’s instinct.
laugh when they call me trouble
because at least this way i’m choosing my path
instead of being forced down theirs.

i learned early;
if i take off my own clothes,
no one else can undress me.
if i say my own words first,
they can’t change what i say.

they call it confidence.
i call it staying safe.
a way to get by,
learning to hold myself up
after being broken down.

i slip beneath their gaze
in lipstick.
in lace.
playing the part they praise.
i seem so in control, don’t i?
like a girl who’s never been trapped.

but really,
i keep control
because it protects me
from being powerless once more.

they say i should be flattered.
that it’s nice,
being told you’re everything.

but i’ve felt hands behind compliments.
heard the lock click
after "you’re special."

and felt my own words shrink
to fit the dress he zipped me into.
how quickly softness
can sharpen into a trap.
how a compliment
can lead you down a hallway
with no doors.

and still,
they say it with a smile.
as if it’s not happening
when it’s dressed in praise.

they picked the brightest flower;
not the one
wilted,
bent at the stem,
dull from too little sun.
i never expected it to be me—
but god,
i wanted it to be.

like glass glued back together,
i’m holding my pieces tight;
scared the cracks will open,
and spill out all the light.

you’d cook with sleeves rolled up,
correct my chopping gently.
i’d burn the onions,
laugh it off,
watch you fix it quietly.

we’d walk in step;
you knowing the way,
me pretending i do too.
you’d point out birds,
teach me their names,
and i’d forget them
just to hear you say them again.

at night,
we’d watch old films.
i’d talk through the quiet,
you’d pause, patient,
like you always are.

sometimes i still miss
our quiet love,
even though
it lived only in my head.