I Didn't Answer

He sent filth in the dark,

like a wolf mistaking his hunger for permission.

He tried to twist my name into his desire,

tie my body to his fantasy,

like I was still the version of me

that used to say yes

to the sound of “at least someone wants me.”

But I didn’t answer.

My heart didn’t skip this time—

it braced,

it tightened,

then it stood still and said,

This is not love. This is a threat.

I used to hear those words and call them passion.

Now I hear them and call them proof

that my prayers are working.

Because no one this vulgar shows up

unless something sacred just moved in.

So I deleted the message,

the memory,

the lie that said

he’s thinking about me, so that must mean something.

No.

I’m thinking about me.

And that means everything.

I didn’t answer

because I’m no longer available

to the lowest version of what once made me feel special.

I didn’t answer

because silence is now my sword,

and peace is now my altar.

I didn’t answer—

and somehow that was the loudest thing I’ve ever said.

-The Soft Witness