Your love feels conditional,
and that knowledge turns in my stomach like a slow ache.
I don’t know how to say this—
how to lay it at your feet
without shattering the
fragile rules
your heart seems to live
by.
This anger circles back to me,
to the parts of myself that stayed,
that learned to swallow
hurt
and
call it patience.
This truth is a knife—
I see it clearly,
I don’t deny its edge.
I hold it anyway,
and accept the cut
because silence would bleed me more.