Amelia James Poetry

It starts in the corners of the room,
small, quiet—just a whisper of doubt.
You can’t see it, can’t name it,
but it wraps around your ribs,
tightens slowly,
like a noose made of words
that never land.

It’s a brush of silence when you need answers,
a look that says “you’re too much”
without ever speaking it.
It’s gaslit laughter,
twisted truths that crawl inside your mind
and rearrange everything you thought you knew.

It’s not the bruise, not the punch,
but the way he makes you believe
you’re the reason the air feels thick.
It’s the sudden heaviness in your chest
when he says your tears are “too dramatic,”
that you’re too much
for him to deal with.

It’s the slow erosion of trust—
the whispers of “you’re overreacting”
until you’re not sure where reality ends
and the cage begins.
But you’ve been locked in it for so long,
you forget what it’s like to breathe outside.

It’s the quietest form of destruction,
the kind that leaves no mark
but you’re broken all the same.
You wear a smile to hide it,
a mask you’ve learned to perfect,
until one day you forget what your face looked like
before the slow burn of his words
tore you down.

The worst part?
It doesn’t feel like violence at first.
It feels like love,
when really it’s just control
dressed in the costume of affection.

And you’re left wondering
why the love doesn’t taste like love anymore—
why it’s bitter and sharp,
but you stay,
because it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

-Amelia James