The Quiet Knife
Betrayal is a quiet thing at first,
a whisper behind a smile,
a handshake that lingers just a second too long
while the knife is already picked out.
It doesn’t crash through the door
like anger or grief.
It slips in politely,
wipes its feet,
and sits at your table like it belongs there.
You replay the moments later,
the laughs, the promises, the “I’ve got you.”
Each memory turns inside out,
like photographs soaked in water
until the faces blur into strangers.
The worst part isn’t the loss.
It’s the rewrite.
The way yesterday suddenly feels fake,
like you were reading a book
and discovered half the pages were forged.
Trust doesn’t shatter loudly.
It fractures like ice under snow,
one step, then another,
and only when you’re falling
do you hear the crack.
Yet somehow,
in the cold space left behind,
you learn the shape of your own spine.
You stand a little straighter,
a little quieter,
and far more aware
of who earns a seat at your table next time.
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