“The real war will never get in the books.”

— Walt Whitman

 

It was not a war we read about—

but the one we lived inside.

 

It began in the quiet:

when secrets slipped through the seams

of our life—

spilling into

our home,

our children,

our truths.

 

D-Day was the slow drip of revelation,

betrayal

leaking out

in hesitant confessions

and fragmented memories

replayed like ghosted film.

 

Later,

It arrived again—

when I said no,

and you forced your yes.

 

Then again, and again, and again—

when effort grew quiet,

intentionality died,

and love was left

unspoken,

untouched,

unfelt.

 

But the final  battle

was not loud.

 

It came after years and years

of trying to win

what could not be won.

 

It came

as I raised

a white flag

with trembling hands,

and finally named

what you would not:

defeat.