Proof I’m Healing

I didn’t text you back this time.

My thumb hovered—old muscle memory—

like a dog waiting for a whistle

That used to mean come here, be good.

﹁﹂

I made tea instead.

Not as a flex.

Just… because my hands needed something

That wouldn’t bruise my heart.

﹁﹂

I used to translate your silence

like it was scripture.

Three hours meant “busy,”

Three days meant “processing,”

Three weeks meant “maybe I should apologize.”

(For what? breathing too loud?)

﹁﹂

I kept lowering the bar

until it was basically a sidewalk,

And still I tripped.

﹁﹂

Today, I noticed the craving rise—

that sharp little hunger

for one warm word from you—

and I let it pass through

like a cold draft under the door.

﹁﹂

I deleted the draft message

with all the careful emojis,

the softened edges,

the self-erasing jokes.

﹁﹂

Maybe you’ll call it pride.

But it felt more like

finally standing up straight

in a room where I’d been crouching.

﹁﹂

I stopped begging for crumbs

and called it growth,

even if part of me still checks the floor.