The harsh love/hate game

I move like a ghost in my own house,

careful not to wake the floorboards,

careful not to breathe wrong.

The air is tight here

thick with words that bruise

before hands ever do.

I study the tilt of your head

like it’s a warning siren.

I memorize the code:

too quiet is danger,

too loud is danger,

too happy is danger.

I shrink myself into corners,

fold my needs into napkins,

swallow whole sentences

so they don’t cut the air.

There are mirrors in this house

but I don’t look long

I’m afraid I’ll see

how small I’ve become.

My body hums with alertness,

a wire pulled too tight.

Sleep comes in fragments,

like I’m trespassing

inside my own skin.

And still

beneath the fear,

beneath the ache,

beneath the voice that says

this is all you deserve

there is something stubborn

beating in my chest.

A quiet pulse.

A flicker.

Not loud enough yet to leave,

not strong enough yet to fight

but alive.

Alive.