the remedy and the wound 

there it was—
the quiet, brutal irony of pain:
to crave solace
from the very hands
that carved the ache.

i stood beneath your shadow,
not to escape the sun,
but to feel warmth in the cold
that you, unknowingly,
wove into my skin.

i wanted you to see me—
not just with your eyes,
but with that part of the soul
that recognizes the tremble
in another's silence.

because all i saw
was the idea of you—
a promise dressed in light,
a presence so tender
i believed it could stitch
every fracture in me whole.

you felt like healing
before you ever touched me.

but how strange it is,
that when you hurt me,
it wasn’t just pain—
it was decay.

like something sacred inside me
began to rot,
slowly,
quietly,
as if love could turn to rust
without a single sound.

how can you be
both the balm and the blade?
how do you cradle my chaos
and still be the storm
that unravels me?

are you a remedy in disguise—
or just a softer kind of poison?

maybe that’s what we never speak of—
that sometimes the cure and the curse
wear the same face,
whisper the same name,
and hold us the same way.

and maybe love,
in its most haunting form,
isn’t what saves us—
but what teaches us
where we are still bleeding.

let that echo in the hollow spaces.
let it ache where it must.
because some truths don’t come to heal—
they come to awaken.