The Scars of Love

(An Ode to the Lovers Who Fight and Find Their Way Back)

We clashed vicious, brutal, like strangers with knives for tongues,

As if love had never lived here, ballards never sung.

You, once my refuge, became my war,

And I now your enemy, not your amour.

Words spilled with shards of truths or lies, we’ll never quite know,

Thrown like stones in a fevered glow.

Our lips, usually soft with kisses,

Now cracked and raw with unspeakable misses.

Hatred, can it really live in the lungs of love?

Or is it just pain misunderstood, misplaced,

A bond once concrete, hurled at the wall,

Now dust, now fragments, now nothing at all.

We climbed that mountain of rage,

Only to tumble, mid ascent, bruised by our own cage.

But somewhere in the silence,

In the heartache, in the breath,

We stood, bloodied by words, but not beaten by death.

Like riding a horse that throws you hard,

You rise, with skin scraped and soul charred.

You mount again, not because it didn’t hurt,

But because some rides are simply worth the dirt.

Scars form, Some fade like morning mist on glass,

Others root deep, reminders that last.

But are they wounds? Or the proof that we lived,

That we conquered the rage, the tears we give?

Then comes that weighty word, "SORRY",

Five letters, a trembling hand in the dark,

Some wait for it like rain on cracked soil,

Others never give it, pride coiled.

Some say it easy, too smooth, too fast, 

Just to forget, not to learn from the past.

But it’s not the fight that defines our way,

It’s how we rise, how we stay.

It's the whispered touch after the storm,

The look that says, We are bruised, but we are reborn.