Between Bruises & Blooms

Before anyone
gets concerned—

no.

I do not want
a man outside
my window.

I do not want
footsteps
where there should
be silence.

I do not want
someone deciding
my boundaries
are merely
suggestions.

In real life,

I would lock
the fucking door.

Call someone.

Run.

But fiction
is not real life.

And somewhere
between the pages,

danger becomes
something
I can control.

I can close
the book.

Skip the chapter.

Walk away.

The monster
cannot follow me
into the kitchen.

So yes,

sometimes
I read about men
made entirely
of red flags.

Men who confuse
love
with possession.

Men who would
terrify me
if they existed
outside ink.

And I enjoy
the story anyway.

Not because
I want the danger.

Because fiction
lets me stand
close enough
to the fire
to feel the heat

without actually
having to burn.