I stayed where love had teeth,
where my name was shouted,
where silence was safer than asking,
and leaving felt heavier than staying.
I left and returned,
again and again,
because hope is stubborn
when it grows in wounded places.
I lived with a man
who rationed kindness,
who counted my child’s hunger,
who made food feel like guilt
and love feel like debt.
My body learned fear before desire.
Touch arrived without tenderness.
Breath left before pleasure began.
Even my tears learned to be quiet.
I became someone else to survive—
angry, fragmented,
borrowing warmth from strangers
just to remember I was human.
Then I chose solitude.
I chose work.
I chose to build, to finish, to achieve.
I learned how to be a machine
because machines do not break.
And then I met you.
You were softness.
You were presence.
You were the first place
my heart rested without flinching.
I loved you deeply—
not loudly, not recklessly,
but with the kind of love
that finally believes it is safe.
Then your voice grew distant.
Your words thinned.
I began counting pauses,
reading silence like prophecy.
I blamed myself.
My past taught me to do that.
To believe love leaves
because I am too much,
too wounded, too afraid.
I don’t want many bodies.
I want one heart.
I only bloom in love.
Without it, I dry quietly,
and even pleasure forgets me.
So here I am—
loving hard,
hurting honestly,
terrified of losing what I finally found.
If I reach for you too often,
it is not control.
It is memory.
It is a woman who learned
that love can vanish without warning.
I am not broken—
I am surviving in a body
that remembers everything.
If I ask you to stay,
it is not weakness.
It is hope,
still brave enough
to try again Vasq.
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