Do Not Call This Love

I feel it.
His eyes undressed me,
not with tenderness,
and not with care,
but with his swaggering entitlement.

As if my body
were something to take,
something already his
without ever asking.

His hands reached out,
not to hold,
but to claim.
To possess.
To rewrite,
to dismantle my boundaries
as though they were optional.

And still,
I am told
that this is LOVE.

But I say no.
Absolutely not.

Do not dress this violation
in the language of devotion.
Do not name control
as care.

This is not love.
This is hunger without respect.
This is desire without consent.
This is power trying to disguise itself
as something sacred.

I felt it.
The sharp tightening in my chest,
the instinct to pull away,
the voice inside me
screaming
NO.

Even when my mouth stayed closed,
even when the words
would not come,
my body spoke
in feelings I could not ignore.

And I believe her now.

I am not yours to take.
Not yours to consume.
Not yours to silence
with expectation or force.

You do not get to decide
what happens to me.

Not with your eyes.
Not with your hands.
Not with your version
of what love should be.

Because love.
Real, tender love,
does not corner,
does not trap,
does not make me feel
like I have to disappear
to survive it.

Love asks.
Love listens.
Love waits.
Love stops
when I say stop.

And if my voice shakes,
if it trembles,
if it comes late,

This body is still mine.
Never yours to possess.

And now I say it.
clear,
loud,
unyielding,
without apology:

This is not love.
And I am not staying.

Poem by

In Beauty I Walk