False Comfort

I've learned to exist in the silence—
because it never cut as deep as your rage.

Like an invisible friend, 
placing a gentle hand over my lips.
Reminding me that shared feelings can be dangerous.
That my voice should stay buried.

Silence shields me from your hand, 
and the words that often bruise and belittle.

She gives purpose to my loneliness.

She faintly whispers "everything will be okay"—
encouraging me that next time might be different.

Silence is a ceasefire,
a breath between battles.
A faint signal of hope on the horizon.
A quiet, reassuring nod given when the war has ended.
A flicker of doubt that echoes —
"maybe, just maybe, 
it hadn’t been that bad after all…"

Silence is the warm blanket of false comfort 
that I still find myself curling into
on cold, grey days.

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