Between Bruises & Blooms

You wrote me a song
called Don’t Go.

And maybe
that should have warned me—

how early
you were already
afraid of losing me,

how quickly
love in your hands
turned into pleading,
gripping,
needing.

You sang about me
like I was mercy.

Like I was peace
your mind could borrow.

Like I was the soft voice
that led you back
from every nightmare.

You called me
your angel’s blessing.

Your serotonin.

The one who helped you
find your voice
after silence
had swallowed it whole.

And God,
I was young enough
to think
that being needed
was the same thing
as being loved.

So I wore it
like a crown.

Like a purpose.

Like if I loved you hard enough,
stayed gentle enough,
held you long enough,

I could keep
every demon
from reaching you.

That is the cruel thing
about songs like that.

They make devotion
sound holy.

They turn women
into medicine.

Into lifeboats.

Into somewhere
a broken man
can rest his weight
without ever asking
what it costs her
to keep him afloat.

You asked me
not to go

long before
I understood
that one day
leaving you
would be the only way
to keep what was left
of myself alive.

And I hate
how beautiful
you made it sound.

How tenderly
you wrapped your fear
around my throat.

How your voice
made dependence
feel like intimacy.

Because there was love there.

Real love.

Mine, at least.

Mine enough
to hear your song
and mistake it
for a promise.

Mine enough
to think
being your peace
meant you would never
be the source
of mine unraveling.

But the song was called
Don’t Go.

Not
I’ll be gentle.

Not
I’ll be safe.

Not
I’ll love you
without making you
carry me.

Just

Don’t go.

And maybe
that was the truest thing
you ever gave me—

the sound
of a man
already terrified
that someday
the woman
holding him together

would finally realize

she was allowed
to let go.