“His laugh you’d die for, his laugh you’d die for…”

Mary Therese

It started last February, with a gentle smile,
a soothing voice, a calm demeanor.
Every word he uttered felt like a song,
the kind you hum without realizing
it’s already stuck in your head.

And indeed, his laughter is the kind to die for,
a warm embrace you can hear,
light, careless, familiar,
as if joy itself had learned his name.

Each word, each laugh,
was an affirmation you didn’t have to ask for,
a reminder that being seen
could feel effortless and safe.

August and September came.
It didn’t feel the same.
Same words, same mouth, yet different weight
once gentle phrases now carried sharp edges.
The voice that praised you
raised itself with anger,
words that once comforted
now had the power to undo you.
Every sentence felt measured,
every tone a reminder
that familiarity can become threat,
that the same mouth that once said I love you
can learn how to wound.

Because love, at first,
sounds like music,
and sometimes, only later,
do you realize how deeply
you let the song inside you.

Once again, it is February.
I hear him laugh again—
one that I’d die for.
Rage.