Jan 7
You say I accuse you too often,
but you don’t know the nights
I’ve spent unraveling myself,
searching for the fault you saw in me.
You don’t know the weight of wondering—
why wasn’t I enough?
Why did my “no”
feel so heavy in my mouth,
yet so faint in your ears?
Why did I apologize for holding boundaries
I was never meant to break?
You asked—softly at first, then sharper, more insistent. A kiss, a touch, a little more. Each time, my “no” cracked, fractured under the pressure of your need. But still, I said it, though every refusal carried an apology I didn’t owe.
I folded myself smaller, shrinking beneath your disappointment. Until one day, I stopped saying no. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than feeling the weight of your questions, easier than holding the shame of not being what you wanted.
And then, there was the forest. That place I can’t forget, no matter how much distance I put between us. It lingers in me— a scar I keep running my fingers over, a moment I still carry like a wound that refuses to close. Even then, I forgave you. Not because I had healed, but because you asked, because it was easier to give you what you wanted than to carry the weight of my own pain.
But now, when I speak my truth, when I let the words escape to lighten this burden I’ve carried for so long, you call me unfair. You twist my voice into something cruel, as though I am the one wielding the knife.
I bent myself to fit your needs, broke myself to keep you whole. I gave and gave, until there was nothing left of me but a hollow shadow, an echo of who I used to be.
Now that I’ve found my voice again, now that I’ve gathered the courage to say what your silence did to me, you hold blame to my chest like a weight I am still expected to carry.
Maybe my words do cut— maybe my truth has sharp edges. But it is mine, the only thing I have left after giving so much of myself to keep you from breaking.
These words are not vengeance. They are reclamation. They are the voice I buried for you, the pieces I shattered to make room for your comfort.
And now, for the first time, I am choosing to put myself back together. Even if it means you no longer recognize the person I’ve become.
You asked—softly at first, then sharper, more insistent. A kiss, a touch, a little more. Each time, my “no” cracked, fractured under the pressure of your need. But still, I said it, though every refusal carried an apology I didn’t owe.
I folded myself smaller, shrinking beneath your disappointment. Until one day, I stopped saying no. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than feeling the weight of your questions, easier than holding the shame of not being what you wanted.
And then, there was the forest. That place I can’t forget, no matter how much distance I put between us. It lingers in me— a scar I keep running my fingers over, a moment I still carry like a wound that refuses to close. Even then, I forgave you. Not because I had healed, but because you asked, because it was easier to give you what you wanted than to carry the weight of my own pain.
But now, when I speak my truth, when I let the words escape to lighten this burden I’ve carried for so long, you call me unfair. You twist my voice into something cruel, as though I am the one wielding the knife.
I bent myself to fit your needs, broke myself to keep you whole. I gave and gave, until there was nothing left of me but a hollow shadow, an echo of who I used to be.
Now that I’ve found my voice again, now that I’ve gathered the courage to say what your silence did to me, you hold blame to my chest like a weight I am still expected to carry.
Maybe my words do cut— maybe my truth has sharp edges. But it is mine, the only thing I have left after giving so much of myself to keep you from breaking.
These words are not vengeance. They are reclamation. They are the voice I buried for you, the pieces I shattered to make room for your comfort.
And now, for the first time, I am choosing to put myself back together. Even if it means you no longer recognize the person I’ve become.
