No More Pretty Words: Authentic Love Without Illusion

Do not come to me

with softened syllables

and half-lit gazes

that flicker in the wind.

I have tasted sweetness

on tongues that never intended to stay.

Words spun like silk,

spilled like poetry,

then left unraveling

in the heat of truth.

They called it love,

but left when staying

meant showing up without a script.

I do not seek safety in perfection.

I do not crave ease.

This world is cracked, yes,

but I would rather love in the dust

than kneel beneath illusion.

Bring me your storms,

your unpolished prayers,

the jagged edge of your truth.

Let it slice.

Let it bleed.

But let it be real.

Do not lay verses at my feet

if you won’t walk beside me barefoot

when the ground is burning,

when the sky goes silent,

when love is less about feeling

and more about choosing.

I will not be your secret softness,

your convenient muse,

your half-held maybe.

I want the calloused hands,

the weary voice,

the soul that says

I am still learning

but I will not run.

So if you come,

come like the desert wind.

Wild. Clear.

Unafraid to strip bare

what does not belong.

Come with your wounds showing.

Come with your work unfinished.

Come with your heart held out

like bread in the wilderness.

Or do not come at all.