Every part of me

Inconsistence

I'm sorry I learned how to survive
by pushing you away
when I didn't feel okay.

That was months ago,
yet the bruise still speaks for itself—
it rises between us
whenever our voices sharpen.

But you should know this:

I am not that person anymore.

I no longer disappear
when the weight gets heavy,
because I finally understood
how unfair my silence was to you.

Now I answer your messages
even when my hands shake,
even when I want to retreat.
I stay.

You asked for reassurance—
to know that a fight
was only a fight,
not the end of us.

So I gave you that truth
again and again,
because you were right.

I stopped hiding behind quiet
when I'm hurting,
because you told me
my silence made your chest tighten with fear.

So instead,
I tell you what wounded me,
name the moment,
name the feeling—
because I never want my quiet
to be the thing that hurts you most.

But tell me now—

in return for all this becoming,
all this unlearning,
what did I receive?

You pulled away.

Your effort vanished
the moment things turned difficult.
You stopped listening—
as if my words no longer mattered
once they carried discomfort.

Sometimes it feels like
my silence would finally make you hear me,
but I know better now.
That door no longer opens.

We used to fight for hours
and still find each other
before the night was over.

Now those hours stretch,
thin and empty,
into days—
three days of absence,
three days of wondering
if I'm still being chosen.

I gave you everything you asked of me.

So where is my reassurance?

When I've changed,
when I've stayed,
when I've tried—

what is left for me
to hold onto in return?