What Looked Safe

You’re a gun without a safety—

not loud at first,

not obvious.

You don’t come in blazing.

You come in close.

Warm.

Careful with your aim

until I forget

there’s danger in your hands.

You speak softly

like nothing about you

could ever hurt me.

And that’s how it happens—

not in a moment,

but in the slow lowering

of my guard.

I stop checking for warning signs.

Stop asking the questions

that might’ve saved me.

Because you feel steady.

Because you feel real.

Because you don’t look

like something that breaks things.

But you do.

Not all at once—

just enough

to leave a mark.

Just enough

to remind me

how quickly something

can turn.

There’s no click,

no signal,

no space

between safe and not.

Just the sudden realization

that I trusted something

that was never built

to protect me.

And maybe

you didn’t mean to be dangerous.

Maybe you just never learned

how to carry yourself

without causing harm.

But that doesn’t change

what it does to me.

Because now

I flinch

at things that never hurt before.

Now I measure closeness

like it’s risk.

Now I remember—

some people

don’t come with warnings.

They come

like you did—

looking harmless

until they’re not.