Politeness Is a Slow Death

"All cruelty begins with an attempt to heal something broken in silence." — Paul Shepard

I used to smile through gritted teeth,
just enough to keep them from looking closer.

My ribs learned the shape of apology
long before I believed I was wrong.

One night, after a harmless joke
cut too deep,
I laughed again.
Just like I always did.

Except this time,
my body didn’t follow.

It stayed behind,
still holding the first insult
no one ever asked me about.

I think that’s when it started to smell.

"Avoiding conflict is how wounds become infections."

There’s this thing that happens when you avoid a fight,
you think you’ve won.
You feel mature, evolved, morally superior.
But what you’ve really done is handed your dignity a muzzle.

I remember sitting across from someone I loved,
watching them explain my discomfort
back to me
as if they were the expert on it.

And I let them.

Not because they were right,
but because I didn’t want to lose them.

That was the infection point.
Not the betrayal.
Not the silence that came after.

The infection was my complicity.
My choice to nod instead of correct.
To protect their ego
by amputating a part of my self-respect.

It took years before the swelling forced its way out of my mouth.

By then, the damage had a name.
Resentment.
And resentment has a stench that forgiveness won’t mask.

So now,
I pick the scab early.
Speak before the rot sets in.
And I let the wound breathe.

Not every cut needs to scar.
But every infection needs to be named
before it poisons something sacred.

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