Against Your Exodus
I didn’t slam the door.
I left it beating in the wind
to see who would still tremble at its sound.
You call it leaving—
I see an elegant renunciation,
a desertion disguised as inner clarity.
Emotions don’t die:
they wait until we stop disciplining them.
Your wall isn’t colossal,
it’s convenient.
High enough not to answer,
thick enough not to hear
anything but the version of you that absolves itself.
Boundaries, you say.
But after drawing enough borders,
we end up confusing peace
with the absence of voices.
Having nothing left to give
is often a refusal to receive.
The new life you announce
resembles a sterile room:
everything is clean there,
nothing lives.
The possible no longer bleeds,
so it cannot grow.
Disappointment isn’t a poison,
it’s proof:
something mattered.
The solidity you brandish
is only premature hardening,
fear turned into a posture.
You say you once cared.
I believe you—
but caring in the past
is the politest way
to betray the present.
The door you close
wasn’t a gift,
it was an invitation.
And an invitation doesn’t demand flight
when the guest becomes unsettling.
You distance yourself to survive.
I stay to live.
I don’t pursue you—
I hold the place
where you could have stayed.
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