I believed there was a reason
buried under the silence—
something still whole,
if I stayed long enough,
if I pressed carefully,
if I didn’t flinch.

I mistook absence for depth.
Avoidance for complexity.
I kept circling the wound,
calling it understanding,
calling it patience,
calling it love.

But there is nothing hidden here.
No secret architecture.
No moral knot waiting
for gentle hands.

Only the plain truth
of someone who would rather
rearrange reality
than sit inside it with me.

I asked because I cared.
I stayed because I hoped.
I softened because I believed
care would be met with care.
Respect met with respect.
Honesty met with honesty.

It wasn’t.

There is no answer coming.
No moment where it finally makes sense.
No sentence that redeems
the shape of what was done.

Only a hollow place
where accountability should have lived,
and a quiet system built
to protect that hollow
at any cost.

I am done mistaking limitation
for mystery.
Done mistaking comfort
for innocence.

This was not complicated.
It was empty.

And I am finished kneeling
at doors that never opened—
listening for footsteps,
holding my breath—
because no one was inside
to meet me.