i tell my mom i’m fine
with a smile that tastes like rust.
every “i’m okay”
tightens something in my chest.

i nod in therapy
when she asks if the thoughts are gone.
they’re not.
but i’m tired of proving i’m hurting.

i say i haven’t talked to you,
and maybe that’s true
if you don’t count dreams,
or the poems you still live in.

i used to think lying
was a way to keep the peace.
but now it just feels
like bleeding beneath a bandaid.

and i don’t want to lie anymore.
not to her.
not to them.
not to myself.

i used to think love was fire,
bright, consuming,
burning everything it touched.

but with you,
it felt more like daylight,
quiet and golden,
something that warmed
without asking for anything back.

you had those soft gold eyes,
like morning sun
on a window,
and i wanted to be that light,
the kind you reach for,
the kind that stays.

i was sunshine, once.
i know that.
the kind that made you squint
but smile anyway.
but maybe even sunshine
can overstay its welcome,
leave behind a burn
you never meant to carry.

and now i wonder
if i’m just a sunburn memory,
the kind that lingers
long after the warmth is gone.

the sun loved me a little too long,
and now i carry it,
this quiet burn,
like the way your name still lingers
even when i don’t say it out loud.

my skin will peel
in places where it once glowed,
the way feelings fade
but never quite leave.
and maybe i knew
i’d get hurt,
but i stayed outside anyway.

because sometimes,
you miss the warmth
more than you mind the pain.
this is how love lingers,
not in fire,
but in afterlight.

i laughed today
but joy is light
and i am not.
so when the quiet came,
i sank like stone.