Just words

You used me—the map of my quiet places,
traced fingerprints through the ribs of my trust.
You lied like soft weather, slow with rain’s embraces,
then left thunder where my calm turned to dust.
You reopened the old, delicate sutures,
pulled at threads I thought time had disguised.
You are that ache that rehearses the fractures,
a hollow that fills with the sound of goodbyes
I stitch myself slowly, stitch after silence,
learning stitches that do not need your name.
I tend to the scab with small acts of kindness,
growing a garden where grief used to claim.
Still: your shadow will pass on my daylight,
and mornings will teach me to breathe without fear.
I keep what you broke as a map for my healing—
a road I will walk, and a heart I’ll revere.