I'm Not Mad

I threw words at them like weapons

because they were right

and I couldn't stand it.

They were right about something

that mattered,

something I'd been lying about,

something I wanted to keep

hidden under defensiveness and rage.

I argued anyway.

I twisted the facts.

I made it their fault.

I made it about something else,

something I could win.

They just looked sad.

They didn't yell back.

They didn't defend themselves.

They just looked at me

like I was someone

they didn't recognize,

someone they were disappointed in.

Then they walked away.

I won the argument.

I destroyed it,

turned it into something

I could win

by losing

the person I was fighting with.

The text came later:

I'm not mad. I'm disappointed.

That word hit harder

than anger ever could.

Anger means you care enough to fight.

Disappointment means

you'd already decided

who you thought I was

and I proved you right

in the worst way.

I've re-read that message

so many times,

waiting for it to soften,

waiting for the words to change,

waiting for it to become

an apology

or a path back.

But it stays the same.

Cold.

Final.

I'm not mad.

Which means