You Never Asked

You tell me now, what I already knew,

That you felt pain, when I chose through,

But no one asked me how I slept,

Or why I hid, or why I wept,

No one saw the weight I wore,

They only said: Don’t shake the floor.

You gave me stories of your pain,

And taught me silence, guilt and shame,

I held your sorrow like my task,

But no one ever thought to ask,

What I had lost, or what I missed,

Or why I clenched my tiny fists.

You want me near, but not too loud,

Just quiet presence, in the crowd,

You want the name, the bond, the seat,

Without the root beneath my feet,

You never sowed a single seed,

You never asked what I might need.

I’ve played along, I’ve smiled, I’ve tried,

But always felt misplaced inside,

I sat in rooms where love should live,

But had to beg for crumbs to give,

I’m done pretending this is fine,

I’ve drawn a quiet, sacred line.

I’m not unkind, I’m just aware,

Of where love ends, and I’m laid bare.

 
Cathrine Hottran 2025