I don't care

I don’t care.

I repeat it to myself every second of every day.

I don’t care.

Even as my stomach twists

from the anxiety she brings me.

I don’t care.

Even as she starts copying me.

Slowly at first.

Then, almost unnoticeably.

My habits.

My tone.

My life.

And then something worse than material things.

It started with my time.

Then my work.

Then my style.

My partner.

My life.

And still…

I don’t care.

While no one else notices.

Because she’s so well-practiced

at being believed.

So skilled at playing the victim

that reality bends around her.

So smooth in the way she moves through life

that people stop questioning it.

I don’t care.

But my body does.

My breath shortens.

My chest tightens.

My anger builds in places I can’t fully name.

I don’t care.

But I do.

And that’s the part that breaks me.

Because maybe if I say it again…

louder this time…

I’ll finally believe it.

I don’t care.