You probably didn’t even notice
it was the last time.
That’s how it always is with you.

I started talking
and your eyes
went somewhere else.
Not far,
just far enough
to make me feel stupid
for trying.

You let my words fall,
one by one,
like pennies on concrete.
No echo,
no bend to pick them up.

So I learned.
I taught myself
how to carry my own weight
with my mouth closed.
How to bleed quietly.
How to cry
without changing my voice.

You kept asking what was wrong
in that lazy,
obligated tone.
Like you wanted the performance
but not the truth.

Nothing, I said.
Every time.
And you believed me,
like that was easier
than listening.

Now I keep everything
just beneath my skin—
tight, hot,
ready.

And you still don’t get it.
You think I’m distant.
Cold.

But I’m not.
I’m just
done.