I was the shelter, not the storm.

She left like a match dropped in dry season,

and called the fire “my temper.”

Now her timeline blooms with thorns she names “my wounds,”

each caption a soft lie dressed in lilies.

I read them like weather reports of a storm I survived,

wondering how the lightning learned my name,

and why the rain keeps apologizing.

I was the clay cup that held her thirst,

yet she says I was the crack.

She gathers sympathy like beads for a rosary of regrets,

counting my flaws as prayers.

But I remember the nights she borrowed my sunrise,

then returned only the shadows,

and said darkness was my design.

Her posts are mirrors she polishes with blame,

reflecting a man she never met.

I am a river she crossed on her own reflection,

then claimed the water drowned her.

The world drinks her version like sweetened tea,

while my truth sits, unsipped,

cooling beside the memory of her hands.

Let her rewrite the sky if it gives her peace,

I have already learned the language of clouds.

Pain is an ink that stains only the honest page,

and I am done bleaching my name.

If love was her excuse, then let it also be her witness,

for I was the shelter, not the storm,

and history remembers which roof held the rain.

© Bunguswa ™