Garden of Bruised Roses

He didn't touch me,

but his shadow did,

long before I knew the weight of a man's hands,

before I learned to kiss with my eyes closed

so I couldn't see myself breaking.

Love feels like a warning now,

a velvet noose wrapped in petals,

each thorn pressing closer the longer I stay.

How can I crave what terrifies me?

How can I want a flame

that I know will leave me ash?

I dream of softness,

of whispers beneath the moonlight,

but the echoes of what could be

taste like the past—

bitter, metallic,

like blood I never bled.

There's beauty in the chaos,

they say,

but my beauty feels borrowed,

a facade painted over fractures.

Every time he smiles,

I think of running,

but my feet stay planted

in the garden of bruised roses

I've cultivated from fear.

I've never been touched,

not really,

but I feel the ghosts of hands

that were never mine,

the weight of love

I've never dared to carry.

And yet,

I linger on the edge of it all,

hoping one day,

the taste of him won't remind me

of the storm

I've been trying to forget.