Between Bruises & Blooms

My body
was never your evidence.

Not proof
that I loved you.

Not proof
that I wanted you.

Not proof
that I belonged to you.

Not proof
that you had won.

You collected pieces
of intimacy
like receipts,

as though someday
you might need
to present them
to a jury
of strangers

and say—

See?

She was mine once.

But bodies
are not contracts.

Photographs
are not deeds
to property.

Desire
is not permanent consent.

And loving someone
does not give them
custody
of your nakedness
after the love is gone.

I was never
the exhibit.

You were.

Every boundary
you crossed.

Every private thing
you turned public.

Every time
you mistook possession
for affection.

That was the evidence.

Not my body.

Yours.