You never raised your voice,
but you never listened, either.
I learned to smile
while shrinking quieter.

I gave and gave
until I bent,
and still you asked
where all the warmth went.

It’s not rage—
not fire, not storm.
Just the slow erosion
of keeping form.

Tiny cuts,
dismissed as small.
You said, “Don’t take it personal.”
I took it all.

Now I nod and pour your tea,
but something’s hollow in my chest.
You never broke me loudly—
you wore me out
like all the rest.