Bitter Heart
It started as a soft thing once,
warm in the chest like morning tea,
trusting every outstretched hand
to hold, not break, not leave.
But winter came in other people’s names.
Promises froze mid-sentence,
doors learned to close without a sound,
and love became a word I couldn’t feed.
So I salted every wound myself.
Taught my smile to have edges,
my kindness to come with conditions,
my “I’m fine” to taste like vinegar.
Now my heart sits in a room with no windows.
It counts the footsteps that walk past,
remembers every one that didn’t stay,
and calls that wisdom.
Calls that armor.
Calls that safety.
But late at night, when the house is quiet,
it still flinches at the sound of rain -
because rain used to mean
someone might come home.
Bitter isn’t the end of the story.
It’s just the season a heart goes through
when it’s learning how to heal
without pretending it was never bruised.
©oriole_b
R
Bitter Heart
