Borrowed Heart

She grew up reaching—

for hands that would bruise,

for smiles that spat her out,

for eyes that lingered, then vanished.

Used.

Clowned.

Chewed.

Thrown aside like scraps

she learned to fold herself

into corners

and call it peace.

Alone is safety.

Alone is quiet.

Alone is the only love

she’s never been denied.

Then he comes—

bright, steady, open,

offering what she’s never known.

And her chest twists.

How do you take something

you were always told

belongs to someone else?

Her books whisper:

love is real.

Her bones scream:

love is borrowed,

love is pain,

love is never hers.

So she stands,

hands tucked, heart hidden,

learning, maybe,

that some love

doesn’t bruise.

That some love

doesn’t leave.