Thorns and Halos

I used to think love should hurt a little,

like tight shoes you “break in”

because they look good on you.

Blisters as proof.

Pain as permission.

﹁﹂

I praised my endurance

How long I could stay

in rooms that made me smaller,

how well I could smile

through the sting.

﹁﹂

You’d call it devotion.

I’d call it faith.

We both loved a story

where suffering meant depth,

where tears were a kind of halo.

﹁﹂

But thorns are just thorns.

They don’t turn holy

because you bleed quietly.

﹁﹂

I remember the way my stomach

would drop before your keys

hit the table

my body kneeling

before my mind could disagree.

﹁﹂

That wasn’t sacred.

That was survival

dressed up in poetry

So I wouldn’t have to leave.

﹁﹂

Now I’m learning a cleaner light

not the spotlight of sacrifice,

just the soft lamp of safety

in an ordinary room.

﹁﹂

If something asks for my pain

as a price of entry,

I don’t call it love anymore.

I set it down.

I walk away,

still tender,

still alive.