Hands Tied

I see the bruises you pretend aren’t there,

yellow blooming over purple,

like dying flowers across your skin.

I hear the way your voice folds in on itself

when you say his name—

small, careful, a thing too fragile to break.

I hate him.

I hate the way he owns the air around you,

the way his shadow swallows yours,

the way he’s rewritten your laughter

into something quieter, something trained.

And I hate myself, too.

For every time I say nothing.

For every time I let you lie to me.

For every excuse I pretend to believe

because I don’t know how to hold you

without breaking you further.

Tell me what to do.

Tell me how to pull you from the wreckage

without making you fear me, too.

Tell me how to set you free

when you keep handing him the key.

I would burn him down.

I would tear apart the sky

if it meant you’d never flinch again.

But you just smile,

tell me you’re fine,

and the worst part is—

I nod like I believe you.