The warzone you don't see

 I won’t press the glass anymore,

won’t knock where silence

has drawn its line.

Last time I stepped forward,

you flinched—

not from pain, but from

the inconvenience

of being seen.

You asked me to reach,

then scolded me for having hands.

Told me to trust,

then turned away

like trust was too loud

for the room you built.

So I’ve stopped moving.

Not out of bitterness,

but out of caution.

Because this is a maze

of your making—

each turn leads to a wall

I didn’t build,

but somehow,

I still bleed from.

What do you expect of me?

If anything at all?

Some days I wonder

if I’m just shadowboxing—

fighting the shape of your silence

until I exhaust my own.

It’s the way you talk in riddles,

offer a truth

only to shatter it later

like glass under doubt.

This is not love.

This is not care.

This is not the soil

where friendship grows.

So no—

I won’t push the boundary

that already bruised me.

I won’t carry the blame

for a game I never agreed to play.

If you want something of me,

say it.

If not,

let the quiet stay honest.

I will not war

with myself

just to keep the peace

you never offered.