You didn’t have to raise your voice—
the quiet did it for you.
Every unread message, every look away,
was a verdict without a trial.
You built walls out of “maybe laters,”
and locked the door with “I’m fine.”
But here’s the thing about silence—
it echoes louder than any scream.
You let me drown in your calm.
You watched me fight ghosts you wouldn’t name.
I kept explaining my worth in languages
you refused to learn.
I kept thinking maybe love was patience—
but it turns out, patience can bleed too.
You called it peace;
I call it neglect wearing cologne.
Your silence was the loudest crime—
a slow burn disguised as care,
a love that never showed up,
but always wanted to be forgiven.
So I stopped waiting for noise.
I became my own thunder.
Now every boundary I set
is a headline you’ll never read.
Because healing isn’t quiet anymore.
It’s bold.
It’s loud.
It’s me—finally choosing to speak
over someone who never did.
