Real love
means telling the truth.
Not truth
like screaming fireballs
before thrown fists
or after slammed doors.
Not “truth”
like the clammy, slithering predators
that hook inside the rib cage,
jab their oily spikes up your throat,
and invade your skull.
Real love
means seeing clearly
and not flinching.
It means refusing to dance
to the tune of their shame.
It means refusing to mistake
the mask for their face,
or participate
in their self betrayal
no matter how vile
their protests.
Real love isn’t always gentle.
It is also steel and mountains.
Real love insists
on the hand behind their back
despite what’s given
with the other.
Most people claim
to covet real love,
but real love is a forge,
and most people
fear flames.
Real love
means believing our own eyes
even if seeing
means forever change.
For real love
would rather lose the beloved
than pretend to adore
a lie
in chains.
© S. Rinderle, August 2026
