i told a lie so she could keep her truths.
i told you it was only me—
that i was the one who saw the smoke,
the only one who reached for the alarm.
i let your anger settle on my shoulders
like a heavy winter coat,
because i’d rather you be mad at me
than feel the world is closing in from every side.
you’re screaming about betrayal,
throwing the rinds of our trust at my feet,
aiming for the softest parts of me
because you think i broke the world.
he told me i was brave,
but then he looked at the dent in my spirit
and reminded me that even if i'm saving the juice,
we still have to break the skin to get there.
"you can't take a bullet
without feeling it hit your chest,"
he whispered.
and i feel it.
it’s a dull ache right behind my ribs,
the sting of citrus oil in a fresh cut.
i am standing here with my hands out,
covered in the evidence of what i’ve done,
trying to convince you the red on my shirt
is just juice and not a wound.
but the color is too deep for a citrus sting;
it is the heavy, iron-rich price of the shield.
i am painted in the proof that i stepped in,
wearing the bloom of the impact
so you could stay golden and whole.
the rind is thick, and the work is messy.
i am learning that you can’t peel back the darkness
for someone else without getting
underneath your own fingernails.
i am learning that being the shield
means you’re the one who carries the dents
home at the end of the day.
my chest is tight with the impact,
a heavy, unpeeled weight
that i’m not allowed to drop yet.
i’m the one who told.
i’m the one who stayed.
i’m the one who took the hit
so she could keep her eyes on our gold.
i hope one day you realize
that i didn't do it to trap you.
i did it because i’d rather be the person
you're shouting at,
than the person standing at a funeral
holding a bowl of oranges
that no one is left to eat.
so i’ll sit with the bruise.
i’ll let the martyr talk
sting the places where i’m open.
because if the bullet hit me,
it means it missed her.
i’ll keep the scissors.
i’ll keep the blame.
i’ll keep the memory of the way
the air felt when the bullet hit.
because as long as i’m the one
feeling the sting in my chest,
she’s the one who gets to keep
the sweetness of another Tuesday with you.
even if you never share the slices with me again.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 9:33 PM UTC
i told a lie so she could keep her truths.
i told you it was only me—
that i was the one who saw the smoke,
the only one who reached for the alarm.
i let your anger settle on my shoulders
like a heavy winter coat,
because i’d rather you be mad at me
than feel the world is closing in from every side.
you’re screaming about betrayal,
throwing the rinds of our trust at my feet,
aiming for the softest parts of me
because you think i broke the world.
he told me i was brave,
but then he looked at the dent in my spirit
and reminded me that even if i'm saving the juice,
we still have to break the skin to get there.
"you can't take a bullet
without feeling it hit your chest,"
he whispered.
and i feel it.
it’s a dull ache right behind my ribs,
the sting of citrus oil in a fresh cut.
i am standing here with my hands out,
covered in the evidence of what i’ve done,
trying to convince you the red on my shirt
is just juice and not a wound.
but the color is too deep for a citrus sting;
it is the heavy, iron-rich price of the shield.
i am painted in the proof that i stepped in,
wearing the bloom of the impact
so you could stay golden and whole.
the rind is thick, and the work is messy.
i am learning that you can’t peel back the darkness
for someone else without getting
underneath your own fingernails.
i am learning that being the shield
means you’re the one who carries the dents
home at the end of the day.
my chest is tight with the impact,
a heavy, unpeeled weight
that i’m not allowed to drop yet.
i’m the one who told.
i’m the one who stayed.
i’m the one who took the hit
so she could keep her eyes on our gold.
i hope one day you realize
that i didn't do it to trap you.
i did it because i’d rather be the person
you're shouting at,
than the person standing at a funeral
holding a bowl of oranges
that no one is left to eat.
so i’ll sit with the bruise.
i’ll let the martyr talk
sting the places where i’m open.
because if the bullet hit me,
it means it missed her.
i’ll keep the scissors.
i’ll keep the blame.
i’ll keep the memory of the way
the air felt when the bullet hit.
because as long as i’m the one
feeling the sting in my chest,
she’s the one who gets to keep
the sweetness of another Tuesday with you.
even if you never share the slices with me again.
