I don’t think I know love.
I know retention rates.
Hate keeps better records.
They say you can misplace what broke you.
I filed the forms. Nothing moved.
Trauma is a long-term tenant.
It arrives with extra luggage, rearranges the furniture,
labels my nerves like cabinets it intends to keep.
You let someone sublet a season, maybe less.
Congratulations: your reflexes deed them the hallway.
No eviction. Just alarms.
I try revisions: rewrite, reason, rehearse.
Strength isn’t a solvent. The stain stays employed.
Some days the bridge flickers.
I want the noise to stop. That is the honest sentence.
And still.
If I was hurt, I was also capable of harm.
Pain doesn’t make me right.
It only makes me loud on the inside.
So I go quiet. I alphabetize the ache.
Call it weather. Stand very still. Wait for it to pass.
When it doesn’t, I practice leaving without moving.
If love exists, maybe it’s the remainder after audit:
rooms that remember who rearranged them
and still unlock.
No bouquets. Just a key that doesn’t tremble.
Meanwhile, I’m thriving™
(legally a joke).
I drink water, answer texts,
keep a professional distance from the edge of whatever this is.
Should the building persist in burning,
please note: exits are clearly marked.
I will not use them today.
I’m busy holding the door for everyone else.
End of log. Everything is fine.
See? :)
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