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.
Through the Fog 