Muted Line
You say you want honesty and then mute the call the second my voice stops flattering your design
I watch your lips move on the screen with the sound cut off
while my words buzz against a dead line
You ask what is wrong with me
then talk over the start of every answer like it is an ad you need to skip
You only unmute long enough to defend yourself
then drop my side of the story back into the drip
Every time I try to draw a boundary
you adjust the frame so I look dramatic and unkind
Then you hang up early and sleep like a baby while I replay the silence in my mind.
You love to say I never share my feelings while never leaving room on the track for them to land
You fill the air with your disappointments
your co-workers, your genius plans, your shattered band
I hold the phone until my hand cramps
staring at the clock while your monologue loops again
And when I finally interrupt to say “I’m not okay
” you call it bad timing and shift the blame back to my strain
You tell people you wish I would open up
paint yourself as the patient one who waits
But you never mention how you cut the audio when my side of the story complicates your states.
I am done talking into a muted line while you nod along to a sound you will never let exist
Done begging for a fraction of the room you give your own complaints
done being the fog you twist
If you cannot listen without prepping your defense like a closing argument in your head
Then this is the last call where my voice turns up
next time you can argue alone instead.
I remember early days when you actually asked follow-up questions and did not rush to steer it back to you
Back before my pain became an inconvenience and my joy became something you resented on cue
You liked me better tired and small, easier to manage
easier to fold into your favorite pose
Every time I tried to grow past that outline you tugged the leash and made it my fault when the distance rose
I swallowed so many unspoken sentences the acid in my chest feels like a second heart
Now every unmade sound is pounding on the bars wanting to tear this whole machine apart.
I am not your soft background caller standing by while you rehearse for an audience that never sees the back
I am not a prop in your story of patience and sainthood while you ignore my quiet rage
I deserve ears that do not shut down when the story gets messy or when I need more than a nod
I deserve a line where my voice does not get cut the second it stops praising your facade.
I am done talking into a muted line while you nod along to a sound you will never let exist
Done begging for a fraction of the room you give your own complaints
done being the fog you twist
If you cannot listen without prepping your defense like a closing argument in your head
Then this is the last call where my voice turns up
next time you can argue alone instead.
I am hanging up from the person you made me
the one who apologizes for even needing air
Answer or not, this time the ring is for me
walking out of a life where I was never really there. If you want
next round we can pick one or two of these and crank them further toward your metal side
or sharpen specific lines to fit album concepts. For now
five standalones, all slow burn
all tired-of-being-invisible rage.