The Message
“I hope he treats you amazing.”
The words flickered on my screen.
A match struck in the dark,
the same fingers that once
held flame to my skin
now sending smoke in digital form.
How dare you use that word.
Amazing.
You mean it like a prayer
but it's a curse in your mouth,
a velvet-wrapped dagger
I once mistook for a kiss.
You,
queen of storm cloud moods,
thunder in your voice
every time I laughed too loud,
loved too openly,
breathed in a way
you didn’t choreograph.
You said love,
but your version came with shackles.
Your bad days became my penance.
I learned to flinch at sunlight,
to question the warmth—
was it real,
or just another prelude
to your freeze?
He doesn’t try.
He just is.
Kind in ways you swore didn’t exist,
thoughtful in gestures so small
they feel like miracles.
He doesn’t need to raise me
from the ashes
because he never sets the fire.
With him,
I am not rebuilding from rubble.
I am not apologizing for standing.
I am growing,
light-fed,
root-deep,
reaching.
He is not a god.
But next to the devil I danced with,
he might as well be divine.
He doesn’t treat it as a gift or
like it’s a favor I have to earn.
He just loves.
Fully.
Softly.
Clearly.
So yes.
He treats me amazing.
In ways you never had the courage to.
In ways you wouldn’t recognize,
even if it was handed to you
in a heart you hadn’t broken.
I hope one day
you understand the weight of your words.
But not for me.
I’ve laid them down.
I walk in light now.
Unburdened.
Beloved.
Free.