The Geometry of Heat

The dust motes dance in the light like secrets we were too afraid to whisper at 3 AM. They call this a library, but to me, it’s just a graveyard of ideas and half-finished dreams. I don't need your poetry or your 'forever' promises—those are for people who haven't learned how to bleed without making a mess.
I want the heat of the sun on my skin, something raw and uncurated. The way it kisses my ribs, reminding me that I’m still here, still breathing, despite every time you tried to turn me into a footnote in your life. You think love is about holding hands? No, darling. Love is about standing in the wreckage of what was and choosing to let the light hit you exactly where it hurts most.
Let the books rot on their shelves. I’m not reading today; I’m feeling. Every beam of gold is a reminder that I don't need your permission to be beautiful, or to be whole. You can keep your 'love brain' fantasies—the ones that make you crumble at a single glance. I’ll take this: the warmth, the silence, and the audacity to exist in my own skin without apology.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks