domestic violence
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An us-against-the-world love story changes shape when she realizes the person beside her is the one she needs protection from.
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A love song called Tomorrow once promised a future; years later, it becomes proof that tenderness and danger once lived in the same story.
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The wall keeps the mark even when memory tries to minimize it: something sharp crossed the room, and someone was standing there.
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He always missed, but survival eventually stops treating bad aim as mercy and names the violence for what it was.
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A body learns to brace for impact even without touch when rage is close enough to feel on the skin.
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A relationship can contain real love and still be destroying you; eventually safety has to matter more than the name you gave it.
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The bruises faded, but the body remembers. A poem about surviving abuse, relearning safety, and blooming from the places once left black and blue.
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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
