You Only Love My Yes
It took me years to notice
how much you needed my agreement.
How peace only lived between us
when I kept my voice small.
You called it love—
but what you loved
was the sound of yourself
echoing back through me.
Every yes was a soft erasure.
Every nod, a small death.
I mistook your relief for tenderness,
and my own silence for grace.
When I finally said no,
you looked at me like I’d broken something holy.
As if refusal were violence,
as if boundaries were betrayal.
That was the moment I understood—
your love was never built for two people.
It was a house that could only stand
if I stayed outside.
And the worst part?
I almost went back.
Because being worshipped
feels a lot like being seen
until you remember
that devotion without respect
is just another form of loneliness.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
