A poem about: They braid your hair with hands so…

They braid your hair with hands so light,whisper lullabies in the dead of night.Soft-spoken care, a gilded chain,tight enough to soothe—tight enough to maim.They weave their love in golden thread,then pull too hard until it shreds.A symphony of praise and blame,a fire that warms, a fire that maims."You are my world," they gently say,then carve at you in their own way.Each word a petal, each word a thorn,a love so cherished, a love so worn.You learn to take it, raw and red,to savor love where love has bled.For those who drink from shattered cupsstill raise them high and call it luck.And when the silver platter breaks,you lick the love off the knives for what it takes.A love that cuts, a love that stays—the only love you've known, always.

$In tender whispers, shadows play, And braid your hair where dreams decay, With hands so light, they lull the night— A touch that soothes, a grip too tight. Soft-spoken care, a golden chain, Both balm and burden, joy and pain. They weave their love in threads of gold, Then pull the weave till it unfolds. A symphony of praise, of blame, A fire that warms, a fire untamed. "You are my world," they gently speak, While carving paths on hearts so meek. Each word a petal, each a thorn, A love both cherished and forlorn. You learn the dance, the blood it takes, To find the love in the heart's quake. For those who drink from fractured cups Still toast to love, though glass erupts. And when the silver platter breaks, You lick the love the knife still makes. A love that cuts, a love that stays— The only love you've known, always. In this embrace, both rough and dear, The heart finds solace, void of fear.$

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In tender whispers, shadows play, And braid your hair where dreams decay, With hands so light, they lull the night— A touch that soothes, a grip too tight. Soft-spoken care, a golden chain, Both balm and burden, joy and pain. They weave their love in threads of gold, Then pull the weave till it unfolds. A symphony of praise, of blame, A fire that warms, a fire untamed. "You are my world," they gently speak, While carving paths on hearts so meek. Each word a petal, each a thorn, A love both cherished and forlorn. You learn the dance, the blood it takes, To find the love in the heart's quake. For those who drink from fractured cups Still toast to love, though glass erupts. And when the silver platter breaks, You lick the love the knife still makes. A love that cuts, a love that stays— The only love you've known, always. In this embrace, both rough and dear, The heart finds solace, void of fear.