I carry it in my chest—

a stone that won’t shift,

a truth that won’t quiet,

a wound that isn’t mine

but bleeds, all the same.

I watch a lover sit with a liar,

hands held, lips kissed.

I watch betrayal,

I see laughter rise on rotting foundations,

kind whispers coating cool deceptions,

promises made without intent.

I could tear the lie from the dark,

and hold it to the light.

But truth cuts indiscriminately—

and they would look at me

as if I held the knife,

as if the wound were mine to make.

So I carry it—

the weight, of knowing,

the silence that keeps them safe.

I let lover walk blindly beside their liar.

When the hurt finds its home,

when the hands unclasp,

when the laughter dies,

they will break.

And I will still be standing here,

holding the weight of knowing.