All my life has been about
Everyone but me
Pleasing others, placating them, prioritizing them
Tiptoeing around, walking on eggshells, getting walked on
Being pushed over
Because surely, they all know better than I do
They all matter more than I do
And why does my self-value, my purpose, depend on my usefulness?
Always playing the martyr, it's getting harder & harder
To pursue my own needs
Where does hyper empathy cross the line into pathological altruism?
It seems I know how to love & take care of
Everyone but me
YOU ARE READING
Necropolis
PoetryAn anthology written throughout 2021, a year of great losses & new beginnings in my life
