Red Flags Quietly

You never raised your voice—

That was the trick.

Like a faucet left barely open,

all night, all week,

until the sink started smelling like metal.

~~

The first red flag was tiny:

“Who’s texting?”

said with a smile you could frame.

Then “I’m just worried,”

then “You always take things wrong,”

And my chest learned to shrink on cue.

~~

In the grocery aisle, I apologized

to the cereal boxes

for standing too long.

At home, your silence sat on the couch

wearing my hoodie like it owned it.

~~

Sometimes you brought flowers—

bright, loud, a little theatrical—

And I’d think: maybe I imagined the rest.

But the stems were cut short,

like they didn’t want to reach.

~~

I kept a list in my head:

jokes that landed like stones,

compliments with thorns tucked in,

the way you’d “forget” my wins

But remember my flaws.

~~

The danger wasn’t loud, it was steady—

a slow song with a wrong chord

That made my teeth ache.

I’m still learning how to hear myself

over the quiet clapping of control.