What is love

What is love?

A four-letter word?

Nah.

It’s a battlefield dressed in perfume

a rose with thorns that whisper, “Bleed for me.”

What is love?

Is it a drug in disguise?

Because I’ve chased the high

and woke up cold in someone else’s goodbye.

Is it a house made of smoke?

A promise wrapped in rope?

Is it holding hands with hope

while doubt kisses your throat?

What is love?

I am weary.

Tired of holding my breath

for someone else’s clarity.

Of being a lighthouse

for ships that never dock

just circle my light,

then crash into other rocks.

Is it lightning or a lie?

A phoenix or a firefly?

Does it burn to keep you warm

or just remind you you’re alive?

What is love?

Is it a mirror or a mask?

A question with no answer,

or a truth we’re scared to ask?

Because I’ve written poems in the skin of my chest,

carved names into the walls of my soul,

begged the silence for a “yes,”

and all I got was echoes.

What is love?

It’s the bruise beneath the blush.

It’s the rush of the fall

when you thought it was a touch.

It’s a ghost in your bed

and a voice in your head

saying:

“Maybe if you were enough,

they would’ve stayed.”