I Said Yes So They’d Stay
Some of us learned yes was safer than no. This is what that cost me.
I said yes with my hands folded,
voice butter-soft,
heartbeat begging them not to hear the tremble.
I wanted them to love me
more than I ever wanted to love myself,
so I said yes with a mouth that forgot
how to guard its own name.
I said yes even when my ribs begged no.
I said yes so they wouldn’t sigh, wouldn’t slam a door,
wouldn’t go looking for a softer throat to kiss instead.
Every yes was a bruise shaped like stay,
a small wound I blamed on kindness,
a way to keep the door closed tight
so no one could see how empty I felt
when they weren’t inside my skin.
They stayed.
But so did the ache.
I’m learning no now
but some nights, my mouth still tastes like surrender.
They called it sweet,
the way my mouth stayed soft, my yes so gentle
you’d never guess my ribs were splintering just to keep the peace.
They loved how easy I was to keep.
No snarls, no slammed doors, no truth sharp enough to bruise their comfort.
Just me… soft-spoken, agreeable, biting down the storm
so they never had to taste it on my tongue.
I didn’t say yes because I was good.
I said yes because I was terrified of what would rattle loose
if they left me alone with the noise in my own chest.
Because silence felt heavier than the bruise their staying carved into my bones.
Every gentle yes was a quiet betrayal I blamed on love
but it was fear, polished holy so I could pretend my smallness was a virtue.
They’re gone now.
I’m still here.
The ache stayed behind long after their hands let go.
I’m teaching my mouth new shapes now:
steel-cut words that don’t bend just to keep the furniture still.
Some nights, I still taste surrender out of habit
but there’s no one left to make comfortable but me.
Don’t call it kindness.
Call it survival.
Call it the price I paid to be wanted.
And understand this… I’m finished paying it.
I’m practicing no now
not to push them away,
but to keep what’s left of me mine.
If your mouth knows this taste too,
stay here.
We’re unlearning it together.
You’re not a subscriber,
you’re a co-conspirator.
This is a room where silence loses every time we open our teeth together.
Stay. Bring your confession.
Bring your version too loud for polite company.
Here, your rage is holy.
Your softness is armed.
Your boundaries are not up for polite debate.
Every poem you read here is a rib torn loose, a page refusing to stay dead.
Soon they’ll bind themselves into a living thing called Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Kept Me.
Not tidy self-help but a mirror that won’t flinch when you do.
I don’t know when it’ll wear a spine and a barcode.
I don’t care.
It’s alive now.
Feral. Soft. Dripping on your screen whether you’re ready or not.
Stay loud enough to make the polite ones flinch.
Stay honest enough to scare the hush that raised you.
Stay. We’re louder together.
P.S.
If this stirred something in you,
it might speak to someone else too.
Feel free to pass it on.
📝 New poems drop on random weekdays.
🖤 Paid subscribers see the whole ache, not just the surface.
📚 The poems shared here will become my next book… Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Kept Me.
🕊 Need a softer breath between the bruises? Subscribe to Healing Thoughts.
☕ Want to fuel the words that name what hurts? Buy Me a Coffee.