She Cried, “I’m His Curse.”

You cried,
“I’m his curse.”
One word—
yet it struck as thunder,
splitting the stillness I carried for years.

The lantern trembled.
Ink blurred into shadow.
Tears fell without sound,
until the page drowned
in the sorrow you named.
Each drop echoed louder
than any prayer I never spoke.

So this was your trial—
to see if love could bear a wound.
One cut you carved on yourself,
one cut you left in me—
and neither heals.

How can a word
cut deeper than silence?
I read it once,
and it read me back,
frost carved where warmth once lived.

If you were truly curse,
why then the moon bends to your shadow?
Why then my wine turns bitter
only when your name is withheld?

Your cry was a dream’s last thread—
morning broke,
yet I could not wake.
The word lingered,
like mist on the mountain
long after the rain is gone.

Between us,
love and grief blur into one,
two notes trembling on one string.
And still your word returns—
curse, curse—
soft as petals falling,
yet heavy enough
to follow me through lifetimes.

And even now,
I wonder if the word you spoke
was love in disguise.

This post has been edited by nihility: Sep 21 2025, 11:15 PM