He said,
"You always make it harder, don’t you?
The shortcut’s right there,
but you lace up your boots for the storm."
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I like the sting of gravel underfoot,
The bruises on my knees that sing like hymns
To a Blessed Mary I don't really know,
But she feels softer
Than the buckle of his belt.

And the words—
Oh, the words,
They’re like little knives
Tucked inside his good intentions.
"This is for your own good,"
But what if my good
Wants to run barefoot
Through wildflowers
Instead of praying for a miracle
That never quite lands?

Lipstick red like fresh wounds
Isn’t fooling anyone,
But it’s my war paint.
Cranberry smile stretched wide,
Hiding a scream that could crack glass,
Hiding the scars beneath my blouse.
I walk the hardest path,
But isn’t that the one
Where the sun hits just right?

And at night,
When the buckle’s hung and his words are ash,
I sleep to find the open fields.
Fields where my mistakes grow like dandelions—
No one beats them out of me there.
I pick them, blow them,
Forgive myself in soft whispers.
Maybe next time, I’ll bloom for me.
Maybe next time,
I’ll leave the storm behind
And just run.