I’ve given up my body
more times than I’ve been given flowers
as if my skin was softer
than petals ever could be,
as if touch could ever bloom
where intention did not root.
I’ve mistaken longing for love,
silence for safety,
and hands for promises.
But hands can vanish
like seasons
that never turn warm again.
I’ve laid in beds
that forgot my name by morning,
heard I love you
in the voice of absence,
and waited in doorways
for people
who never learned to knock.
Still
I leave the light on.
Still
I press broken stems between pages,
hopeful some part of me
can remember what it is
to be chosen
with gentleness.
Because love,
real love,
does not ask you to trade yourself
for scraps of closeness.
It arrives with hands full
not empty,
not demanding,
but bearing flowers.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC
I’ve given up my body
more times than I’ve been given flowers
as if my skin was softer
than petals ever could be,
as if touch could ever bloom
where intention did not root.
I’ve mistaken longing for love,
silence for safety,
and hands for promises.
But hands can vanish
like seasons
that never turn warm again.
I’ve laid in beds
that forgot my name by morning,
heard I love you
in the voice of absence,
and waited in doorways
for people
who never learned to knock.
Still
I leave the light on.
Still
I press broken stems between pages,
hopeful some part of me
can remember what it is
to be chosen
with gentleness.
Because love,
real love,
does not ask you to trade yourself
for scraps of closeness.
It arrives with hands full
not empty,
not demanding,
but bearing flowers.