A Quiet Reckoning

I used to call it passion

when your voice rose like a flare.

I used to call it honesty

when you insulted me “for my own good.”

﹁﹂

I pinned excuses to you

like boutonnières

Look, how pretty, how committed,

how deeply he feels.

﹁﹂

My friends would tilt their heads,

and I’d rush in with the script:

He’s stressed. He didn’t mean it.

He loves me, he just

(There was always a “just.”)

﹁﹂

The roses I carried were real enough

dates, playlists, that one time

You drove across town with soup

When I was sick.

And that's the problem.

Honey on the blade.

﹁﹂

But one afternoon you laughed

When I cried,

and something in me went very still,

like a room after the music stops.

﹁﹂

No big scene.

No dramatic leaving.

Just a quiet reckoning:

if I keep calling thorns “flowers,”

I will bleed and smile

until I forget what red means.

﹁﹂

So I stopped arranging your red flags

into bouquets.

I set them down.

My hands were shaking,

But empty looked good on me.