It wasn’t in a courtroom.

No jury.

No transcript.

No cross-examination.

Just silence.

And a half-full cup of coffee

I didn’t bother to reheat.

I didn’t speak it aloud.

Didn’t write it down.

Didn’t tell a soul.

I just stopped

defending you.

Stopped folding your rage

into trauma.

Stopped calling your cruelty

a wound.

Stopped rewriting what you did

into what I wished

it meant.

I used to say—

You didn’t mean to.

You didn’t know how to love.

You had a hard life.

You were hurting.

You were sick.

You needed help.

But that morning—

with no one watching—

I finally said

the thing I wasn’t supposed to say:

You knew.

You chose.

You did it anyway.

You raised your voice

and liked how I flinched.

You watched my ribs bruise

and went back to blaming.

You lied,

looked me in the eye,

and asked me to trust you.

And I did.

Until I didn’t.

There’s no closure in the truth.

No relief.

Just stillness.

And that’s all I needed.

I still loved you.

Even then.

But I loved myself more

the moment I stopped

lying for you.

Read the Next Poem

Detox