Between Bruises & Blooms

Strangers knew my username
before they knew
what your hands had done.

Before they knew
about the window.

Before they knew
how fear changes
the architecture of a room—

how every doorway
becomes an exit plan,
every raised voice
a weather warning,
every silence
something you learn
to measure.

They knew me
as a tag.

A girl from the lore.

A name dropped
into comment sections
beneath screen recordings
of a man
they had decided
was entertaining.

They didn’t know
I had once slept
beside the punchline.

They didn’t know
I had loved him.

Really loved him.

The stupid kind.

The forgiving kind.

The kind that keeps
putting flowers
in a house
already filling with smoke.

They didn’t know
how much of me
had to die
before I finally left.

They only knew
my little blue handle
lighting up beneath a video—

what did you do now?

And God,
there was something almost funny
about strangers
asking me that.

Because I could have answered.

I could have written novels
beneath that comment.

I could have said:

Nothing.

I survived him.

That was enough
to make me part
of the story forever.