No Worries

They texted: emergency, can't make it tonight.

I texted back: okay, it's alright.

But at nine I saw them at a bar,

laughing with someone in the dark.

This is the third time they've lied,

the third time I've let it slide,

the third time I've said okay

when I meant to walk away.

I watch them on my phone screen,

the blue light, the space between

the truth and what I'm willing to see,

the loyalty that's killing me.

Next month they'll text again,

another excuse, another when,

and I'll know it's a lie,

and I'll smile and comply.

I could tell them I know,

could let the real truth show,

could say I'm done with this game,

could take back my name.

But I won't, I'll just sit here,

swallowing my own fear,

being the friend who's always fine,

the one who never draws the line.

I'll text back: no worries, friend,

even though I know how this ends,

even though I've already decided

that loyalty means staying divided

from my own self-respect,

from anything I could expect,

from admitting that this isn't friendship at all—

it's just me, waiting for my fall.