I walked out with my chest hollowed,
like you carved something out mid-sentence
and left me standing in the mess.

No yelling.
No slammed doors.
Just that slow-burn kill—
words that rot after they’re spoken.

I said what I meant.
You didn’t.
And somehow I’m the one bleeding.

My mouth’s dry,
my hands shake a little,
and I keep replaying it—
like maybe if I find the right frame,
it won’t hurt as much.

But it does.
Still.
Like I swallowed glass
just to keep the peace.

I’m done trying to translate silence.
I’m done peeling myself open
for someone who won’t even look.

You call it “just a talk.”
I call it
exhaustion.