The Compliment That Felt Like a Chain
They say it like a blessing. You’re so easy to love. But no one asks what you had to silence to become that simple to keep.
They called me easy. Low-maintenance. The kind of love you don’t have to work for. You’re so easy to love. You never make a fuss. You’re the calm one. You never start a fight. They meant it sweetly, like it should feel holy to be simple to adore. They thought they were praising me, didn’t hear the leash snap shut behind my teeth. They loved my stillness because it cost them nothing. They called my silence grace and ignored the growl I buried so deep it learned how to wear a halo. I know what it cost: my hunger, my edges, the truth I bit down so I’d stay soft on their tongue. Every compliment wrapped tighter around my throat until I forgot I was supposed to breathe. Next time, don’t tell me I’m easy. Tell me I’m loud. Tell me I’m difficult. Tell me I make you earn the privilege of staying.
They thought they were loving me for my calm. Never asked what it cost to keep the storm chained so quietly behind my ribs. They fed themselves on my softness like it was their birthright, never tasting the iron on my tongue each time I bit down a truth too sharp to serve sweet. They stroked my silence, praised my stillness, called it grace, called it holy, never wondering who I had to strangle inside my own throat to stay so easy to touch. This poem is the bruise I tucked behind every polite nod, the snarl I buried under a smile soft enough to be held without fear of bleeding. Being easy to love was just another cage: harmless, obedient, smooth at the edges so their hands never got cut on my honesty. But soft does not mean spineless. Quiet does not mean empty. I have a mouth full of storm now, and next time they call me calm, I hope they choke on how loud my ribs rattle when I finally spit up everything I swallowed to keep the peace they never deserved. Don’t bless me for being easy. Dare to love me when I’m not. Bleed for it. Earn it. Or get gone.
This time, I won’t make it easy.
If you want the softness,
you’ll have to meet the growl that guards it.
Earn your place in the storm
or don’t come looking for shelter.
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.
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