I never write about love.
I just write about what happens after.

Because writing it in black and white
would mean it’s real—
and I’ve never had real, no matter how hard I tried.

And let’s be honest,
I don’t believe it’s real.

You can’t force real,
because real is the little things—
the acts of love.

Like showing up without being asked,
loving without being begged,
standing up for you
in rooms where everyone else sits silent.

It’s the way they make space for all of you,
shining light on the parts the world
would have told you to hide.

I’ve never seen it.
No acts of love.
No one showing up.
No loving without being begged.
No one standing up.
No one making space.
No light shining on all my flaws.

So I don’t write about love.
Because I don’t believe it’s real.