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.
Through the Fog 