When a man loves you in private,
it’s not poetry—it’s blood.
Not flowers, but the thorns he pulls, one by one,
from the ruins of your ribcage.
It’s not delicate, this kind of love.
It’s teeth gritted, breath sharp,
the kind that feels like tearing
but somehow rebuilds you at the same time.

He doesn’t love the version of you people applaud.
Not the flawless smile,
not the curated grace,
but the raw, unfiltered you that stares at him
with rage in your veins
and the salt of your tears still burning down your face.
He loves the aftermath.
The earthquake.
The wreckage.

It’s not about the things he says,
because his words barely matter here.
It’s about the way he shows up
like a storm you didn’t know you were asking for,
fingers tracing rage and ruin beneath your skin,
and instead of running,
he leans in.
Into your chaos. Your mess.
Into the jagged-edged you
you swore no one could stand close to
without getting cut.

When a man loves you in private,
it’s feral, primal,
an undercurrent of something holy but dark.
He doesn’t parade it for applause.
He doesn’t wrap it in shiny paper
or dress it in lies polite enough for company.
He takes your rawest ache and holds it in his hands,
knowing it could burn his skin,
and still,
he won’t let go.

He loves you where others are afraid to look—
in the shadows where your guilt hides,
at the bottom of the bottle,
in the cracks your laughter slips through at night.
He doesn’t care if the world calls it love
because it’s something darker,
something deeper,
something that doesn’t need anyone else’s name.

When he loves you in private,
it’s a collision, a quiet destruction.
You wonder if you’ll survive it.
And somehow you both do—
bruised, raw,
but alive.
More alive than you’ve ever dared to feel.