I wear responsibility like a second skin,
stitched into my seams,
woven with threads of "you should know better."
I chase after gold stars and perfect grades,
a marathon runner on a track of validation,
never asking if the race has a finish line.
Books are my only escape
their pages softer than the chaos in my mind,
their words drowning out the sound of
what ifs
and
you should have done betters.
I think too much and feel too much,
a paradox of cold logic and warm dreams.
I want to believe in love,
the kind that doesn't disappoint,
but my brain whispers, be realistic.
Tears press against the dam of my composure,
ready to flood,
but I won't let them, not in front of you.
Crying is weakness,
and I've never been allowed to be weak.
So I carry it all quietly,
smiling just enough to keep people from asking,
are you okay?
Because honestly,
I'm not sure I'd know how to answer.
