Fine

I said it before she even asked.

Fine.

One word and the conversation

was dead,

was already gone

before it started.

She didn't push.

The line went quiet.

I've been saying it so long

I don't know what honesty

sounds like anymore.

Fine is small on the tongue.

Fine fits in your mouth

like a lie

that tastes like truth.

Fine means stop asking.

Fine means I'm handling it.

Fine means don't come closer.

Fine means everything

except what it says.

I used to know the other words—

the ones that crack,

that require someone

to stay.

Now I say fine

and watch them turn away,

and I've saved them

from the weight of me.

Fine is kind.

Fine is the word

I've learned

to swallow

instead of

speaking.