In the neon hum of a crowded bar,
ice sweating in glasses, laughter sharp as swords,
my phone blinked a betrayal.
A message—
meant for hands that weren’t mine,
for skin I’d never touched.
Her name, a quiet bomb.
My stomach dropped,
the floor shifting beneath the weight of a stranger in our story.
At home, he wore his guilt
like an ill-fitting coat,
shrugging it off with a laugh and another drink.
I folded my love smaller and smaller,
tucked it into corners,
praying it would still be enough.
I even made room for him,
gave him space to walk away,
but he stomped through the cracks anyway,
leaving his mess all over what we’d built.
Twice,
his absence bruised the bed before his body ever did.
Twice,
he left,
came back smelling of someone else’s perfume—
sour, cloying,
like the whiskey staining his breath.
My hands bruised too,
once.
His grip a cage that held me still
while the words came fast and harsh,
the air turning thin.
Even then,
I stayed.
I rehearsed forgiveness like a prayer,
but my mother’s ghost whispered behind my ribs:
You were not born to be this small.
You do not belong here.
And when I finally left,
it wasn’t with a bang but with silence—
the kind that follows a storm,
where every broken thing lies bare,
and the air smells like freedom and fear.
Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.
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