Query any poem you want.

You came not as a lover,

but a storm draped in silk,

whispering ruin between kisses,

promising peace in shattered glass.

Your name—

a hymn of destruction sung by stars

falling from the heavens,

leaving only ash in their wake.

I built kingdoms for you in my heart,

wove dreams out of trust,

but you marched through them all

with the certainty of a general,

scorched-earth footsteps beneath your gaze.

Each touch was a battle,

each promise—

a blade slipped between my ribs,

softly, gently,

until nothing was left but shadows

where hope once lived.

You planted wars in my soul,

sowed doubt in every sunrise,

and in the field of my love

grew nothing but sorrow,

an endless autumn.

Still, I whispered your name

like a soldier too weary to lay down arms,

longing for a ceasefire that never came.

But you, H., were never one for truce.

You left me cradling the ruins,

heart in pieces like a city abandoned,

yet I stand among the wreckage

and call it survival.

The war is over.

But the scar of you will always linger—

a love that burned,

a lover who brought only fire.

And I still wonder:

Did you ever love me,

or were you only ever a war,

disguised in the skin of a man?