Poems: You Broke Me First

You broke me first —
and everyone since
has bled
on the shards you left behind.

Fragile hearts,
tender hands;
I tried to love in splinters,
to build warmth from splintered wood.

But every touch turned to glass,
every promise slipped through trembling fingers.
You were my first storm,
my uncharted sea,
and I have drifted —
wrecked and wondering —
through every harbor since.

Yet if you reached for me now,
not the ghost who shattered,
but as a soul who knew me whole,
perhaps we could gather the pieces.
Perhaps your hands could teach mine
to hold without hurting again,
to learn how love
can be gentle, unafraid, and alive.

I wander still through faces new,
yet every path returns to you.
Each tender hand withdraws in fear;
it feels your ghost still living here.

So take my hand and meet my gaze;
let love be born from broken days.
Though time has passed and hearts have cried,
come back to me — stay by my side.

Yet I must walk a steadier way,
for healing asks that I not stay.
My heart still longs, but I must choose
myself at last — or all I lose.

Though drink and pain have marked my way,
and you might turn or walk away;
my heart can’t trust what runs so free —
I choose my life, not losing me.

You know the cracks where I still bleed
and turn my need to serve your need.
While I stay sober, I must stand —
not give my wounds back to your hand.

You’d use my hurt to make me stay,
twist sober nights and lead astray;
I choose a life you can’t control —
to keep my heart and save my soul.

Yet still each night I lay awake,
thinking of us, together — whole,
but meet the dark of unread lines:
a love once lost in unheard signs.