u/4amcore

I forgive you for trying to fill my silence;

I am surrounded with your words,

and you want to know what's going on inside my mind,

and you generally don't quite get there any way.

I forgive you for making the same mistakes repeatedly over and over again ones we've discussed.

It's like you're trying to read a book in a foreign language-shuffling through it to determine you're saying the right thing.

I know you are trying to do the right thing I forgive you for not realizing my silence is nothing to be fixed.

You're a human being and you're saying your mind and you're always there and when you get it wrong I am still here with you mistakes

and all because I know you are trying.

And I don't care about the mistakes I don't care about the silence I care that you're trying.

To be the reliable one means you pay a price with your visibility.

You give up being a little messy for being the person.

You learn on that your worth is tied to how little you complain when things get tough.

The cost is being on edge all the time.

You get used to holding your breath so others don't lose theirs.

It means losing the option to say "I give up".

When you are the support system you realize there is no one to catch you if you fall.

So you just stop falling.

You pay with being tired all the time being the first to arrive and the last to give up.

You build an image so people forget that there is a real tired person under the surface.

Ultimately the price is losing touch with what you need.

You get really good at handling peoples problems but you forget how to handle your own.

You plan everything so you feel safe.

You lose the fun in life.

You are, like the sky that everyone takes for granted.

You are beautiful.

Always there, but you carry a heavy weight that no one thinks about.

If I stopped bending?

The bridge would just snap. I'm the eldest daughter, I've spent years acting as the scaffolding for a house I didn't even design.

I've turned textbooks into a heavy shield, hiding the fact that I'm drowning in the 'investment' my parents made in me.

If I let the mask shatter, my family wouldn't see a daughter.

They'd see a broken contract. A void where the paychecks and the 'perfect girl' were supposed to be.

The one left?

Maybe the peeling paint on my bedroom wall. The ghosts of poems I burned to make room for business reports.

The 4:00 am silence doesn't ask me for 'izzat' or a career plan.

Everyone else is in love with the architecture I've become.

No one actually cares about the girl suffocating under the stones.

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