Between Bruises & Blooms

The photograph was mine.

My body.

My angle.

My decision
to stand beneath soft light
and look at myself
without flinching.

For once.

Do you understand
how hard that was?

To live inside a body
with history carved
beneath the skin
and still decide

beautiful.

Still decide

mine.

Still decide

worth photographing.

Then you took that moment
and turned it
into punishment.

Something meant
to belong
between trust
and tenderness

became a weapon
because I left.

But the photograph
never became yours.

Not when I sent it.

Not when you saved it.

Not when we broke apart.

Not when anger
made you believe
you deserved
the final word.

The photograph was mine
before you saw it.

It was mine
while you kept it.

It was mine
when you showed it
to strangers.

It is mine now.

And whatever shame
you hoped
would crawl back
into my body

belongs
to the person
who violated the trust,

not the woman
whose only crime
was believing
someone she loved
would protect
what she gave him.