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.