I Didn't Answer

He sent filth in the dark,
like a wolf mistaking his hunger for permission.

He tried to twist my name into his desire,
tie my body to his fantasy,
like I was still the version of me
that used to say yes
to the sound of “at least someone wants me.”

But I didn’t answer.

My heart didn’t skip this time—
it braced,
it tightened,
then it stood still and said,
This is not love. This is a threat.

I used to hear those words and call them passion.
Now I hear them and call them proof
that my prayers are working.

Because no one this vulgar shows up
unless something sacred just moved in.

So I deleted the message,
the memory,
the lie that said
he’s thinking about me, so that must mean something.

No.

I’m thinking about me.
And that means everything.

I didn’t answer
because I’m no longer available
to the lowest version of what once made me feel special.

I didn’t answer
because silence is now my sword,
and peace is now my altar.

I didn’t answer—
and somehow that was the loudest thing I’ve ever said.

-The Soft Witness