I am the harbor steady, unshifting and you are the tide that forgets I drown too.
Sometimes you shift and something in you sharpens. You wear your hurt like a blade, and I become the body that receives it.
You spit fire into my softness, cutting through me with words that slip too easily from your mouth, then try to vanish with the sunrise.
You say you don’t remember, that you didn’t mean it, But something inside you does.
Because if love lives beneath the surface, then so does resentment. And I’m starting to wonder which of the two fuels you more when the bottle opens or the storm begins.
You rage like you’re emptying something. As if I’m a vessel meant to catch what the world has done to you. But I have my own weight, and still, I will carry yours.
I cradle the aftermath in my chest, while you sleep off the wreckage.
And when you wake, you speak soft, apologize like love can erase the wound without cleaning the blood.
But memory has teeth. And mine won’t stop gnawing at the edges of your promises.
How many times can I be the calm? How many nights can I be the one who swallows the thunder so the house doesn’t shake?
You forget. I remember. You sleep. I ache. And still, I remain.