Slow Burn

She wore long sleeves in July.

Said she got cold easily,

said the sun didn’t love her

the way it used to.

But really, she was hiding

the fingerprints around her wrists,

the blush of bruises across her collarbone,

the stains love left.

He kissed her in public,

fingers on her chin,

tilted her face up like she was something

to be displayed.

And she let him,

because love was supposed to be a slow burn,

and no one saw the fire

until there was nothing left

but smoke.