Warmth Without Strings

You used to call me “easy,” like a compliment,

like I was a hoodie you could steal

and wear out the elbows on.

I laughed. I always laughed.

✁

Now I buy my own soft things—

thick socks, cinnamon tea,

a blanket that doesn’t ask questions,

a lamp that stays on when I’m scared.

✁

It’s strange, realizing

I mistook tension for closeness,

that tight-knot feeling in my chest

for a ribbon you tied there on purpose.

✁

I remember the way I shrank my voice

to fit your weather.

Sunny? I sparkled.

Stormy? I became furniture.

✁

But love—if it’s love—

shouldn’t require me to disappear politely.

It shouldn’t charge admission

in pieces of my sleep.

✁

Tonight I said “no” without explaining.

My hands shook,

then settled,

like a dog finally lying down.

✁

I still miss you sometimes,

and that’s annoying, honestly,

But missing isn’t a contract.

It’s just a shadow passing.

✁

I want warmth without strings—

a fire that doesn’t burn receipts into my skin.

If you come back,

Bring gentleness, or don’t come.