I Don’t Care

I say I don’t care

like it’s armor—

like if I repeat it enough

it’ll harden into truth.

Like it’ll quiet the part of me

that still notices everything—

every shift in your tone,

every silence

that lingers too long.

I don’t care—

that’s what I tell people

when I don’t want them

to see how much I do.

Because caring

has never been gentle with me.

It digs in deep,

makes a home in my chest,

refuses to leave

when it should.

So I learned

how to say it lightly,

how to shrug it off

like it’s nothing,

like you didn’t matter

the way you did.

But the truth is—

indifference

is something I pretend to have.

What I actually carry

is quieter than that,

heavier than that.

Because if I really didn’t care—

I wouldn’t still be here

thinking about it

long after

you’re gone.