Time is a cruel thing.
Not because it moves—
but because it remembers.
It remembers every conversation
I thought mattered.
Every night
I opened my chest like a wound
and handed you explanations
with shaking hands
hoping this time
you would finally hold them gently.
But time…
time watched me repeat myself
so many times
that even my own voice
started sounding recycled to me.
How many times
can a man explain his silence
before silence becomes the only language
he has left?
I told you already.
I told you
my quiet ain’t always pain.
Sometimes it’s survival.
Sometimes it’s peace.
Sometimes it’s the only moment
my mind ain’t drowning in noise.
But somehow,
weeks later,
months later,
here we are again—
same argument,
same confusion,
same interrogation
wearing a different outfit.
And that’s how I know
you never truly listened.
Because people who understand you
don’t make you dig your soul up
over
and over
and over again
like proof in a courtroom.
I am tired.
God—
I am tired.
Tired in a way sleep can’t fix.
Tired in the bones.
Tired in the spirit.
Tired in the part of me
that still keeps trying.
Do you know what it feels like
to walk on eggshells
inside a place that’s supposed to feel like home?
To measure every word
like it’s attached to a bomb?
To rehearse your tone before speaking?
To say,
“Maybe I should stay quiet tonight”
because peace is easier
than being misunderstood again?
I live like a hostage
to your reactions.
And the craziest part is—
you think you’re the misunderstood one.
You say,
“You don’t understand me.”
The bullshit.
The absolute bullshit.
I have bent myself into empathy
so many times
I no longer recognize the shape of my own needs.
I swallow emotions
so yours can breathe easier.
I overthink every sentence
to avoid hurting you.
I carry your feelings
with both hands
while mine bleed out unattended.
And somehow,
I still become the villain
in the story you tell yourself.
Somehow,
your pain always outweighs mine.
Your tears become evidence.
Mine become inconveniences.
You talk about accountability
like it’s a language
only other people should speak.
You paint yourself as the victim
with such beautiful colors
that nobody notices
I’m disappearing in the background.
And maybe that’s what hurts most.
Not the arguing.
Not the tension.
Not even the loneliness.
It’s the feeling
that no matter how softly I speak,
how calmly I explain,
how deeply I love—
you have already decided
who I am.
And it is exhausting
being punished
for a version of myself
I never was.
Time notices things.
It notices how long a man goes
without feeling emotionally safe.
How long he survives
before he stops explaining himself.
How long hope sits in the corner
begging love to feel mutual again.
I used to believe
communication could save us.
Now?
Now conversations feel like reruns.
I already know the script.
I explain.
You twist it.
I defend myself.
You cry.
I apologize
for things I shouldn’t have to apologize for.
