They say trust is the most important thing in love.
Cute. Simple. Wrong!
Look at the wreckage it leaves;
more scars than the people in it could ever carry.
They made love soft, flawless, eternal
left us bruised, on the floor.
Trust is not a cushion for your heart.
It is not infallibility.
It is not a vow that you will never bruise each other,
or fracture in the collision of perspectives, baggages, spines.
Trust is taking each other as you take life:
the goods, the bads, the hurt, the healing,
the toxic, the magic, the unbearable, and the surreal.
Hurt is inevitable.
Two bodies, two minds, two histories
crash like storm-tossed ships
in a night without stars.
And here,
between the fractures,
love begins.
Not gentle.
Not forgiving.
A predator that lurks in the wreckage,
breathing in the pauses,
carrying every bruise, every betrayal.
Real trust
is acknowledging it all
and choosing it anyway.
Even when escape is easier.
Even when survival feels uncertain.
Because you can run,
but you can never quite escape
the inevitability of things.
Repair is no soft act.
It is a dance on the edge of ruin,
a conversation with chaos itself.
And sometimes,
if terror or tenderness permits,
we survive.
Not healed. Not whole.
Just two damaged goods
still standing in the wreckage,
still daring
to call it love.
Knowing it could in cold blood kill us.
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