Resentment..

Resentment isn’t anger. It’s grief that never got permission to speak.

Resentment lives quiet,
like a chair pulled back but never pushed in—
always in the way,
always remembered by the bruise on my shin.

It is the ledger I never meant to keep,
names written in invisible ink,
debts counted in sighs,
interest compounding every time you said later
and meant never.

I watered understanding
until it drowned me.
I folded myself smaller,
called it patience,
called it love,
called it survival.

Resentment doesn’t scream.
It hums.
A low, constant note
beneath every conversation,
turning kindness heavy,
turning silence sharp.

And still—
some nights I press my ear to my own chest
and listen for what’s left of me
under all that held-back truth.

Because resentment is not anger—
it’s grief that never got permission to speak.