Broken Trust
I asked you once for something small—
just truth, unpolished, plain.
But you wrapped it up in careful words
and handed back a stain.
It looked like honesty at first,
it sounded almost real,
but somewhere in the quiet cracks
I felt the edges peel.
Now every sentence echoes twice,
one version, then the doubt—
like footsteps in an empty hall
that never quite fade out.
I turn your words like fragile glass,
hold them to the light,
searching for the hidden seams
you tucked just out of sight.
And maybe you meant no harm at all,
maybe you thought it kind—
but broken trust is rarely loud,
it fractures in the mind.
So here we stand, a careful space,
no anger left to defend—
just the quiet, certain knowing:
I can’t trust you again.
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