Flinch
I don’t trust gestures.
Even kindness comes in fast.
Every hug, a held breath.
Every “I love you,”
a loaded silence
with the safety off.
The hand raised in love
looks like the one that hit me.
They never start with fists—
they always start with flowers.
And I’m still learning
how to tell the difference
between a petal and a bruise.
I flinch at doorframes,
at footsteps behind me,
at softness I didn’t earn.
My body remembers
what my mind tries to forget:
love has always come
with a warning label
I couldn’t read in time.
Sometimes I flinch
before you touch me—
not because I think you’ll hurt me
but because I know how easy
it is to be wrong.
I am learning not to duck.
Learning to stand still
when the world moves toward me
with open hands.
Body of Proof
This skin is no longer a crime scene—
it’s velvet,
it’s heat,
it’s mine.
I undress like an act of revolution,
run my fingers over ribs
they tried to cage.
I write love letters on my thighs
in lipstick and sweat,
moan without shame,
touch with intention.
Every breath
a testimony
that I survived.
Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.
