You Are So Mean
You could have been gentle.
It would have cost you nothing.
Instead, you twisted your words
into little knives
and tucked them into your sentences
like secrets.
And I—
I bled quietly,
confused
by how someone I once loved
could find joy
in hurting me.
—
Then you did it again.
Another jab.
Another sneer.
Another moment where kindness
could’ve bridged a chasm,
and you built a wall instead.
I felt something break inside me.
Not a snap—
just the soft sound of something
wilting.
You didn’t even notice.
—
And again.
You took a moment meant for light
and crushed it in your fist.
I had hoped—foolishly, maybe—
that this time would be different.
But you were exactly the same.
I felt disappointment
bloom in my chest
like a slow bruise.
God, I wanted better for both of us.
—
And again.
I clenched my jaw.
Tried to laugh it off.
Tried to meet cruelty with calm.
But why do you keep
choosing to be sharp
when you could just be soft?
My frustration boiled over—
not because you hurt me,
but because you don’t care that you do.
—
And again.
That time, I burned.
Your words hit bone
and I met you with fire.
I wanted to scream.
I did scream—
but not out loud.
Inside, something cracked wide open
and fury poured through it.
You don’t get to act like this
and expect peace in return.
—
And again.
But this time, I said nothing.
What’s the point?
This is just who you are.
I’ve stopped waiting for softness.
You wear cruelty like perfume—
habitual, lingering,
familiar.
You are a storm
with no intention of clearing.
And I’ve stopped scanning the sky.
—
And again.
But I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t sigh.
Didn’t feel.
You are a background hum now—
static.
I see you.
I hear you.
But I don’t absorb you anymore.
Your meanness doesn’t land.
It just floats,
aimless,
powerless.
You are nothing I carry.
Not anymore.
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POETRY ANTHOLOGIES BY BRITT WOLFE:
