Time.
Funny thing about time.
People say it heals wounds,
but nobody talks about the years it spends
watching somebody reopen them.
Nobody talks about the clock hanging on the wall,
watching you apologize
for things you didn’t do.
Watching you explain yourself
for the thousandth damn time
only to be told
that’s not what happened.
Like truth is a piece of paper
and whoever talks the loudest
gets to hold the pen.
I remember coming home carrying a diagnosis.
Not a damn opinion.
Not a feeling.
Not a theory.
A diagnosis.
Something with weight.
Something with consequences.
Something that changed how I saw myself.
Something that should have earned
at least a moment of compassion.
A pause.
A question.
A hand on my shoulder.
Something.
Anything.
Instead,
I got nothing.
No concern.
No empathy.
No remorse.
Just another conversation somehow becoming about you.
And maybe that was the moment
time finally started whispering to me.
Maybe that was the hour
I started realizing
I wasn’t a husband anymore.
I was a witness.
A witness to the rewriting of reality.
Because that’s the thing.
You don’t just tell stories.
You believe them.
You say something happened,
and suddenly it becomes law.
Facts don’t matter.
Evidence doesn’t matter.
Memories don’t matter.
The truth walks into the room,
and somehow leaves as the suspect.
I’ve watched you take assumptions
and dress them up as certainty.
Watched accusations become convictions.
Watched feelings become evidence.
Watched lies become family history.
And the craziest part?
People believe it.
God, they believe it.
Your family believes it.
Your friends believe it.
Anybody who hears your version first
believes it.
Because victims are easy to love.
And villains are easy to hate.
And somehow,
I’ve been cast as the villain
in a story I didn’t write.
I’ve watched people look at me
through a lens you built.
Watched them judge me
using evidence they never bothered to verify.
Watched them nod their heads
while you painted yourself as the wounded one.
The survivor.
The innocent one.
While I stood there
holding scars nobody cared enough to inspect.
Because my pain never came with a good marketing team.
My pain didn’t cry loud enough.
My pain didn’t have an audience.
My pain just sat in silence
and learned how to survive.
