Red Quiet

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.