I fell asleep today with a terrible case of wishful thinking
and woke with my ribs aching like they remembered something
they weren’t supposed to.

Love stitched the crack in my spine
with thread made of old lullabies and teeth.
It whispered: “Shh. Stay still. This won’t hurt long.”
And I believed it.
Of course I did. I always do.

It kissed my silence like it wanted to own it,
pressed its mouth to the scream I buried in the drywall.
It didn’t ask permission.
It lit a match inside my throat
and waited to see what would burn.

My dreams—
they came barefoot and ******,
clutching a map of all the places I left myself behind.
They rubbed balm on my bruises
with hands that looked like mine
but steadier.

They said:
"You were not born to starve on your own sorrow."
But I’d grown so used to the taste,
I didn’t know how to eat without bleeding.

Love swept in like weather—
a hurricane in a soft dress,
a war poem with a soft mouth.

It did not heal me gently.
It cracked my ribs open
and climbed inside,
said “Here. Let me haunt you kindly.”

And I let it.
Of course I did. I always do.