What He Said To me After Court
The courthouse doors closed behind us
like the last note of a funeral hymn,
the air thick with the stench of falsehood,
of twisted truths dressed up
in the language of concern.
And I—
I was shaking.
Not just from what was said,
but from what it cost me
to sit there
and let them try to define me
with the wreckage of them that I left behind.
He pulled me into his arms
before I could crumble.
No words at first.
Just the press of his chest to mine,
his hands gentle but grounding—
as if he could steady the world
just by holding me.
And then his voice—
low, beautiful,
breaking only where it hurt too much to speak:
“I hate what they’ve done to you.”
His blue-grey eyes searched mine,
storm and sea in their depths,
tender and furious at once.
I hate the way they still reach for you
with claws instead of hands,
with chains instead of apologies.
And I hate that I can’t pull you
farther from it than this.
I wept like a child.
Because I knew—
he would have built me wings
if it meant I never had to touch
their floor again.
He brushed the hair from my face,
soft as breath.
They can lie.
They can scream.
They can drag you through the mud
of their own making.
But none of it
changes who you are.
And then—
his forehead pressed to mine,
his eyes locked to my soul.
“You are worth it.
Every second.
Every sharp word thrown your way.
Every scar they carved into your past.
All of it—worth it
for one moment with you.
For a single morning beside you.
For one laugh
shared over burnt toast and strong coffee.
For the sound of your voice
when you forget to protect yourself and just… speak.”
I broke open in his arms.
Not from pain.
From the safety
of being seen.
He doesn’t just love me.
He chooses me.
In full daylight.
In the aftermath.
In the shadow of every lie
that tried to bury me.
And when the world
sank its teeth into my back,
he held the broken pieces
like holy things.
That’s what he said to me after court.
And it was everything
I needed to remember
that I am not what they say.
I am what he sees.
