Between Bruises & Blooms

I gave you photographs
because I trusted
the hands receiving them.

That was the agreement.

Not written.
Not signed.
Not witnessed.

But understood.

Mine,
given to you.

Not yours
to distribute.

Not yours
to display.

Not yours
to hold up
beneath the blue light
of a live screen
while strangers watched
a body
they had never been invited
to see.

You made my body public
as if loving you once
had transferred ownership.

As if leaving you
meant I forfeited
the right
to privacy.

As if anger
were permission.

It wasn’t.

Those photographs
were not ammunition.

My skin
was never revenge.

My breasts,
my stomach,
my softness,
the parts of myself
I photographed
because for one moment
I felt beautiful—

none of them
belonged
to your rage.

You didn’t expose me.

You exposed
what you were willing
to do
to a woman
once she stopped
belonging to you.

And there is a difference.

My body survived
being seen.

Your character
didn’t.