Saltwater and Cumulus

I clawed at the universe to cradle what remained

I lied.

I told the six of them I was going for groceries -
a lie sharp enough to hide the scream behind my teeth,
a thousand shards of paper cuts

I kissed five tiny halos -
little trusting bodies I couldn’t shield,
and closed the door behind me,
fleeing into an evening thick with dread, silently pleading with the saltwater of my eyes a tide reaching the cumulus
I clawed at the universe to cradle my blooming wildflowers hoping she’d harbor them - that their heartbeats would endure - steady and unbroken

“Never come back,” he spat -
a venomous curse that burned through my throat,
torn from me, swallowed raw.

The last word my lips bore courage to breathe toward him was ok -
a haunted surrender caught between fear and fracture - a word drenched in secrets
cold as the handcuffs that bit into his wrists on the hood of that car.

I didn’t leave prepared -
he left me suffocating unpacked.
His oxygen coloured black in my lungs,
the pouring of his love came with invasions and blood blooms
and I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

I left with no goodbye,
just a self-contract
and the echo of ok
pulsing through the wreckage of my heart.

Four years later,
that day lives in the scar tissue -
not tender, not oozing crimson
just there
bruises rewoven.

To the woman who calls a minefield home,
still mouthing lies just to slip out the door- your pain is sacred rage.
Your trembling is resistance.
Your survival is a blood-soaked hymn,
wrought from the corridor of ruin.
Your sanctuary isn’t found,
It’s you