He brings her to my doorstep like a wounded bird,
with a heart full of static and a voice I’ve already heard.
She carries the shrapnel of a war I didn’t start,
jagged pieces of a before still lodged in her heart.
And I want to be the harbor, I want to be the light,
but God, I’m terrified of the way she grips me in the night.
It’s the way she flinches when I reach for her hand,
like she’s waiting for a blow I never planned.
She’s beautiful and broken, a masterpiece in pain,
looking for a shelter from someone else's rain.
But I see the architecture of the rebound in her eyes
the way she leans on me to muffle all her cries.
I’m afraid I’m just the bandage, not the skin;
the temporary structure where her healing can begin.
I’ll stay up until the sunrise, stitching up the tears,
absorbing all the trauma and the echoes of her years.
I’ll be the bridge she walks on to find her feet again,
the steady, quiet rhythm that helps her heart to mend.
But what happens when the color returns to her face?
When she’s strong enough to leave this sanctuary space?
I’m haunted by the vision of her finally feeling whole
packing up her bags and taking back her soul.
She’ll look at me with gratitude, a "thank you" in her breath,
before she goes to find the man she loves to death.
The one who gets the version of her that isn't terrified,
the one who gets the laughter she currently has to hide.
God, I’m scared to be the ladder that she uses for the climb,
only to be the person she leaves behind in time.
Must I be the medicine that she has to swallow down,
just to watch her wear her healing like a brand-new crown?
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:08 AM UTC
He brings her to my doorstep like a wounded bird,
with a heart full of static and a voice I’ve already heard.
She carries the shrapnel of a war I didn’t start,
jagged pieces of a before still lodged in her heart.
And I want to be the harbor, I want to be the light,
but God, I’m terrified of the way she grips me in the night.
It’s the way she flinches when I reach for her hand,
like she’s waiting for a blow I never planned.
She’s beautiful and broken, a masterpiece in pain,
looking for a shelter from someone else's rain.
But I see the architecture of the rebound in her eyes
the way she leans on me to muffle all her cries.
I’m afraid I’m just the bandage, not the skin;
the temporary structure where her healing can begin.
I’ll stay up until the sunrise, stitching up the tears,
absorbing all the trauma and the echoes of her years.
I’ll be the bridge she walks on to find her feet again,
the steady, quiet rhythm that helps her heart to mend.
But what happens when the color returns to her face?
When she’s strong enough to leave this sanctuary space?
I’m haunted by the vision of her finally feeling whole
packing up her bags and taking back her soul.
She’ll look at me with gratitude, a "thank you" in her breath,
before she goes to find the man she loves to death.
The one who gets the version of her that isn't terrified,
the one who gets the laughter she currently has to hide.
God, I’m scared to be the ladder that she uses for the climb,
only to be the person she leaves behind in time.
Must I be the medicine that she has to swallow down,
just to watch her wear her healing like a brand-new crown?
~PJNK