I mistook the trail for truth followed prints in dust, not knowing they looped. He walked ahead, I bled to keep up. Called it love. Called it enough. He broke the sky, I named it weather. Held out my hands and called it tether. I was only ever healing what he hollowed. Chased his ruin like a promise called it road, called it gospel, called it mine. He never touched me except to tear. And still, I stayed like love was something earned by repair. He lit the match, I sang to the flame. Said, “This is warmth.” Said, “This is pain.” I planted gardens in his scorch marks. Fed the roots what fell from his dark. My hands—miracles. My ribs—open gates. But every wound I kissed shut was one he made. I was only ever healing what he hollowed. Chased his ruin like a promise called it road, called it gospel, called it mine. He never touched me except to tear. And still, I stayed like love was something earned by repair. If I was the salve why did I sting? If I was the light why did he hide from it? I said: this is sacred. I said: this is mine. But what kind of altar only opens when you’re bleeding on it?
