i crawl back into the arms
that carved the bruises in my soul,
as if the same fire that scorched me
might keep me warm tonight.

he is all i have
the only voice in the silence,
the only hand to reach for
when the walls begin to cave.

so i swallow my pride,
my grief, my fury,
and beg the storm that breaks me
to be the storm that calms me.
i plead with the ocean that drowned me
to teach me how to breathe.

love should not feel like this.
yet it is the only language i understand.
i translate cruelty into comfort,
violence into shelter,
because his chaos
is the only place left to call home.

i never learned where else to run.
my family speaks in slammed doors,
my friends turn to shadows,
so when the night cuts deep,
i run back to him.
the knife and the hand that holds it.

he is both the wound and the bandage.
his words split me open,
yet it is his voice i cling to
when the shaking starts.
my hands remember only
the weight of his shoulders,
the rhythm of his breath.
the pain feels easier to bear
than the emptiness without him.

i tell myself stories.
that i can separate the man who shatters me
from the man who gathers me close.
but they are the same man,
the same heartbeat against my cheek,
the same eyes i search for
in every crowded room.

and it is a cruel comfort,
to beg the fire for warmth,
to press myself against the hands
that taught me how to flinch
and whisper the word “home.”

i tell myself love is meant to save,
but mine is only meant to survive.
so i fold myself into the fire,
let the smoke choke my lungs,
and pretend the burning is warmth.

because what else is there?
i do love him.
more than the breaking,
more than the scars etched into my heart.
and maybe that is the cruelest part.
if this is the only shelter i will ever know,
then let it be ruin.
let me learn to sleep inside it.

because it has to be him.
it will always be him.
it is him in the breaking,
him in the ashes,
him in the ruin i call my life.

and god help me
i don’t know how
to want anyone else.