A Language That Left Marks

The cold wind caressed my skin,
February’s way of whispering
that life loved me—quietly, deeply.
It kissed my sun-warmed surface,
held me close enough to sway,
and I danced, mistaking touch for care.

The cold was never cold at first.
It felt familiar, almost tender,
like the lover I once longed for—
the one I called mine,
the one who knew the corners of my body by heart,
or so I thought.

He was different—
the good kind of different.
Open arms, open letters,
hands always reaching, never empty.
He was sweet—
flowers pressed into my palms
until delight blurred my sight.

He was unique,
a sun rising over my darkest years,
warming every doubt,
teaching me to lean into his light,
loving me in ways that felt too tight,
fearing every flame I held in sight—
until I forgot
he had already set me burning, ablaze.

I mistook his nearness for shelter,
mistook heat for safety.
I did not know warmth, unchecked,
learns how to burn.

What once held me steady
began to hold me still.

His warmth turned into a fire,
an inferno that silenced my lyre.
The fingertips that once adored
every corner of me,
the lips I once cherished,
were the very ones
that learned how to hurt.

His gentleness grew sore.
His hands touched my skin
not with grace, but with horror.
His favorite canvas
was my delicateness—
he painted in bruises, in blood.

He marked me with violets, blues, and red,
colors I still cannot forgive.

He did not touch to feel my soul—
he touched to remember where I belonged.
Each handprint was ink, a signature,
each bruise a reminder
that my body learned his name
before it remembered mine.

Now, when the cold wind finds me,
I let it pass.

It does not linger,
does not claim my skin,
does not stay long enough
to leave a mark.

And that is how I know
it is not love.

I am still unlearning the way
my skin flinches at kindness.
Still teaching myself
that love does not ask
to be proven in pain,
and that my body
was never meant to be owned by someone
other than myself.