Bruised & Reason
✨ two poems.
✨ one love story.
✨ two hearts hearing the same heartbreak… differently.
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💛 Aria —
the bruise
You don’t talk to me
the way you used to.
Your voice
used to land softly—
like it knew my skin,
knew my heart,
knew where not to touch.
Now it lands like glass.
Thin.
Sharp.
Clear enough that I can see through it,
but never hold it
without bleeding.
And I tell myself
not to notice.
Not to flinch
every time you pause too long,
every time your sigh
sounds like a secret,
every time your eyes flicker
the way people do
when they’ve already made up their mind
about something they won’t admit yet.
But I notice.
God, I notice.
Soft words.
Casual.
Thrown away like scraps.
But they hit me harder
than anything you’ve ever said
to my face.
You still love me,
I know you do—
but you love me
like a photograph.
Gently.
Carefully.
From a distance
that feels close
only until you notice
there’s glass between us.
I stay.
Because leaving you
would feel like ripping out a rib
just to learn how to breathe without it.
Because hope—
even the dying kind—
is still a kind of light.
And the truth?
It terrifies me
that you meant every word
you whispered
when you thought
I wasn’t listening.
But it terrifies me more
that I heard you,
shattered quietly,
and still found a way
to love you
with all the broken pieces.
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💙 Ethan —
the reason
I wonder
what you hear
when you walk out of the room.
The things I mutter
under my breath—
God,
I never meant for them
to land on your heart
like that.
Like glass.
Like truth
I wasn’t brave enough
to say to your face.
You think I don’t love you.
That I’m slipping away.
That every time I touch you
I’m holding someone
you used to be.
But the truth is—
I’m afraid.
Afraid of how much I need you.
Afraid of how much I don’t deserve
the softness you give me
even when your hands
are shaking.
So I pull back.
Not because I’m leaving,
but because I don’t know
how to stay
without hurting you.
I love you
like a man standing
too close to a fragile thing—
scared to breathe,
scared to move,
scared he’ll break it
just by wanting it too much.
When you ask
about the words I whispered—
words born from fear, not truth—
I deny them.
Not to make you doubt yourself.
Not to make you feel crazy.
But because hearing them out loud
makes me hate the way
my mouth works
when my heart is scared.
You look at me.
And all I can think is:
God, don’t leave.
But then you stay—
even with the hurt,
even with the quiet breaking,
even with the pieces
I didn’t realize
were coming off in your hands.
And that terrifies me
more than anything.
Because if you heard me—
really heard me—
then you’re loving me
through a wound
I gave you.
And I don’t know
how to forgive myself
for the way you bleed
so softly.
But I swear—
if you stay,
if you still choose me
in the morning—
I will learn
how to love you
without making you
shatter first.
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