Forgets

He Forgets

It's like he forgets how smart I am.

As if I wouldn't notice

the pause before the answer,

the eyes that look past mine

searching for a safer version of the story.

As if I didn't feel it first - 

that small shift in the air,

the tightening low in my stomach,

the quiet alarm my body sounds

long before the words arrive.

He forgets

I have survived worse than a lie.

That my instincts were forged

in fire and fracture.

They do not misfire now.

He forgets how relentless I am -

how I will turn over every stone,

trace every thread,

sit in the dark with a question

until it speaks.

He thinks I will take

"his truth"

wrapped neatly,

offered gently,

and call it home.

He mistakes my silence for belief.

My patience for blindness.

My love for naivety.

He does not realize 

how loudly dishonesty hums to me.

How obvious the cracks are

when someone is building a story

instead of telling one.

He forgets - 

I am not asking

because I am unsure.

I am asking

to see if he will choose honesty

when given the chance.

And what hurts most

is not the lie.

It's the quiet arrogance

of thinking

I would not know.

And I am tired 

of reminding him...

Who I am.