We've all heard that tone of voice,
the sugar‑coated sting,
The compliment that limps in
carrying a hidden rolling pin.
You toss it out like it’s harmless,
like you’re gifting me something
I should hug with gratitude.
But I hear the crack in it,
The quiet insult lying just beneath the smile.
Funny how you call it “just being honest,”
as if your opinion were a light
I’m supposed to walk toward.
I never asked for your light.
I wasn’t standing in the dark.
Still, you tilt your head,
deliver your masterpiece,
half praise, half poison,
and wait for me to swallow it whole,
And thank you for it.
I stay silent.
Not because it didn’t land,
But because silence is the only shield
That doesn’t escalate the war.
But silence doesn’t mean untouched.
It means I’m carrying the weight
That you pretended wasn’t there.
These are the wounds nobody sees,
the ones shaped like kindness,
the ones that bruise without breaking skin.
Damage done in daylight,
with a smile,
with a tone so soft
It almost sounds like care.
Almost.
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