Do Not Call It Love

Do not call it love.

Love does not come with locked doors,

or whispered threats behind gritted teeth.

Love does not smell like liquor and rage,

does not leave fingerprints on soft skin,

does not turn apologies into nooses

tightening around the throat of forgiveness.

I have measured time in the spaces between your footsteps,

counted my worth in the way you sigh

before spitting my name from your mouth like venom.

I have learned to fold myself small,

to be invisible, to be silent,

to become nothing at all

because nothing does not break when struck.

But even the quietest things remember how to scream.

Even the smallest flame can burn a house to the ground.

One day, I will not flinch at a shadow.

I will not hold my breath when the door creaks open.

I will not taste your anger in my food,

or hear your voice in the silence.

One day, I will be more than what you made me.

And you

you will be nothing but dust

settling in the corners of a life

I no longer live.