🌑 "The Bite Wasn't Love"



🌑 "The Bite Wasn't Love"

He bit my skin,
then bit my truth.
Called my bruises lies,
and my silence — proof.
Exposed my wound to his mother,

as if shame belonged to me.
But I remember —
his grip, his smirk,
and my body begging to be free.
That wasn't love.
That was ownership masked as affection.
Pain disguised as power.
But today, I write.
Today, I name it.
And today…
I begin to reclaim it.

                      KULSOOM AFZAL

Location: Karachi, Pakistan

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love and Hurt

Image
  Love and Hurt Love hurts sometimes, but love itself is not pain. Pain is loving alone, standing in the rain while the other walks away dry. Love is not always romance, not flowers or promises. Love is staying at the lowest, holding hands when everything falls apart, choosing presence over ease. True love does not wound the heart. Fake love does— when it is one-sided, when silence answers devotion, when effort is never returned. I did not love wrong. I loved deeply. And one day, my love will meet someone who knows how to stay.                                       KULSOOM AFZAL
Read more

The start of a new journey, a new me within

Image
  The start of a new journey, a new me within. I hid the pain deep inside, buried it with tears and silence. And then—I chose to live again. Now I walk in clouds of happiness, washed by rains of hope, watching the sunrise of a new beginning.                             KULSOOM AFZAL
Read more

They Couldn’t See Me Bloom

Image
  They Couldn’t See Me Bloom They couldn’t see my glow, because light unsettles those who live in shadows. They couldn’t see my talent, because my rising reminded them of their stillness. To them, a broken soul must bow its head, wear grief like an identity, stay quiet, stay small. They believed pain was my final form. When I was hurting, they were absent— no hands to hold me, no voice to say stay . But step by step, with trembling feet and a brave heart, I gathered my worth again. I stitched myself back together with patience, with hope, with tears that taught me strength. Now they say my bloom isn’t worthy of anything— because healing was never part of their plan for me. But I learned this: a flower does not ask if it deserves to bloom. It blooms because it survived the storm. And so did I.                          KULSOOM AFZAL
Read more