Lilog224ever
I've been quiet long enough. Not patient. Not healing. Quiet. Like a body holding its breath until something snaps. They call it patience. I call it survival on borrowed time.
Four months in a car. Four months of promises and polite lies. Blank numbers. Automated messages. People who say, "we'll look into it," with the soft cruelty of a prayer that never shows up. They tell me "fourteen days" like it's a unit of time that relates to human lives. Like my bills, my hunger, my fear are some kind of waiting-room entertainment.
I laugh to keep from breaking. I smile to keep from explaining. I let people touch the surface and never go deeper. They like the version I give them: polite, presentable, a ghost with manners. But underneath? There's a furnace, fed with every lie they gifted me like charity. I haven't forgotten a single one. I remember the exact tone of every call: "we're working on it," "be patient," "just breathe"-as if breathing were a skill, not the only thing keeping me alive.