Email Poem

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Poem

There is snow in my wounds—
Soft, crystalline lies
Melting slow into the bruises you painted
Like frost on raw skin.
Your words,
Those lovely razors,
Cut so elegantly
I mistook the sting for silk.

You never shouted.
Not once.
You whispered ruin
Like a lullaby sung into marrow,
And I listened—
A child reaching
For warmth from a flame
That only ever wanted to burn.

You call it love—
When your silence screams into my ribs,
And I bled petals
Into the white sheet of your indifference.
A rose, you said,
Must be crushed to release its perfume.
So you crushed,
And I exhaled sweet suffering
As if it were devotion.

Your voice,
A red river on my mouth—
Syrup-thick with venom,
Yet I drink.
I drink because your cruelty tastes 
Like the only warmth I've known
In this winter of aching hearts.

Some nights,
You read me love poems between insults.
I cried, and you said
I was beautiful like that—
Ruined,
Wet-cheeked and obedient.
A canvas primed
For your next masterpiece.

And so I sleep—
Not peaceful, but numb—
On snow-stained sheets,
My lips painted
In the soft blood
Of everything I ever said.

Let them call this madness.
Let them call this tragic.
But art,
True art,
Wears pain like velvet,
And I—
I wear you.

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