I stood still,
not because I’m weak,
but because I thought
you needed somewhere safe
to swing your pain.
You said I was your punchingball —
and smiled,
as if the truth was something
I should be proud to carry.
As if bruises count as love
when they come from you.
But I bleed in silence,
and you don’t see the cuts
because they don’t show
on skin.
They show in
numb mornings,
tight throats,
quiet yeses.
You still think
I stay because I can’t leave.
But I stay
because I choose to.
Don’t make that choice
feel like a mistake.
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 10:10 AM UTC
I stood still,
not because I’m weak,
but because I thought
you needed somewhere safe
to swing your pain.
You said I was your punchingball —
and smiled,
as if the truth was something
I should be proud to carry.
As if bruises count as love
when they come from you.
But I bleed in silence,
and you don’t see the cuts
because they don’t show
on skin.
They show in
numb mornings,
tight throats,
quiet yeses.
You still think
I stay because I can’t leave.
But I stay
because I choose to.
Don’t make that choice
feel like a mistake.
A poem about the silent role many take on — becoming someone’s emotional punching bag out of love. It’s about endurance, awareness, and reclaiming self-worth. Raw, honest, and laced with quiet rebellion.
