
09/23/2025
tired of being the easy chair people sink into when they’re restless or oppressed.
tired of being the soft landing, the one who forgives before the wound even learns its shape.
at first, silence tasted perfect.
now it tastes like rust.
i let something slide. It was like sweeping shards under the rug—still sharp, still waiting.
And every apology i accepted without question felt like trading my reflection for smoke.
forgiveness was supposed to be mercy.
instead, it hollowed me out.
Then, I wore it too often, like a borrowed coat that never fit right, and the weight of it bent my spine.
so here i am, stripped of excuses.
maybe this is what self-respect looks like: not a shout, not a storm, just the quiet refusal to keep bleeding for hands that never bothered to hold me.