Unheard
I said no.
A no that meant its purpose.
Not rebellion.
Not spite.
Just a boundary I was finally allowed to own.
But I’m told to go.
Just leave.
Take the break.
As if this was kindness.
As if this was care.
But I know better now.
His words wear masks.
They speak in riddles.
They offer space —
only when it protects his.
His welfare.
His being.
His emotions.
His narrative.
My “no”
isn’t met with listening.
It’s met with redirection.
Dismissal
dressed as compassion.
“Go take time.”
Translation:
Make it easier for me.
Because when I’m gone,
he doesn’t have to see
what he’s doing.
He gets to feel kind,
while I feel erased.
And still,
I’m the one
who’s too much.
I kept his words as a hello —
to find the light
where he’d turned it off.