There are days my heart is a raw thing,
a surface of open wounds stitched together by hope,
by every whispered promise that you love me enough to stay.

There are days I carry my feelings like glass,
stacked too high in trembling arms,
praying you won't reach too quickly,
or speak too sharply.

You always knew I bled easier than most.
You kissed the fragile parts,
said you loved their softness,
said you understood.

But sometimes your voice sharpens without warning,
a blade born of anger, or carelessness, or exhaustion,
and slices clean through the carefulness I built.
No armor can catch the words in time.

It happens fast
one sentence, thrown hard,
splintering the places that were already holding on by threads.

I know you don’t always mean it.
I know you think I’m too sensitive,
that my trembling arms should be stronger by now.

But inside me, there’s a battlefield you cannot see.
Every harsh word is a grenade.
Every sharp tone, an echo I cannot quiet.
My mind doesn’t heal with apologies;
it loops the moment over and over,
building walls where bridges used to be.

When your voice becomes a blade,
I’m not just hurt
I’m torn between defending myself and begging for mercy,
between running and staying,
between remembering your love and believing your anger.

I don’t want you to be the one who hurts me.
I want to be the one you speak gently to,
even when the world is heavy,
even when you're tired.
Especially then.

Because love should not sound like a weapon.
And I have already survived too many wars inside myself
to survive another one inside the walls of your voice.