I wear the mask of too many roles,
Caretaker, rebel—lost in their tolls.
I give, I bend, but never break,
Hiding parts of me for others' sake.

I ask myself, "Is this enough?"
Is my best a gift, or a never-ending bluff?
I wonder if they see the cracks inside,
The parts of me I’ve tried to hide.

When things go wrong, I pull away,
Lost in regret, in a sea of dismay.
I cry, I doubt, I ask, “Why me?”
Stuck in the same cycle, never free.

I fear they’ll see me as a lie,
Fake, rude, disloyal—just a disguise.
But deep within, I know the truth,
I hide, I shrink, to avoid the proof.

I suppress the honesty, the raw, the real,
For fear they’ll judge what they can’t feel.
I keep my truth locked far away,
A prisoner of my own dismay.

Isolation brings a fleeting peace,
But it’s the silence that won’t cease.
With the few who truly see,
I try to feel what it means to be me.

But even in those moments, I fear,
That I’ll be left, unseen, unclear.
So I wonder, in the quiet of night,
Am I enough, or just a fight?

I don’t know what my purpose is yet,
But in this struggle, I’ve learned to forget.
I’m supposed to lead, but all I see,
Are the shattered pieces of who I could be.

I carry self-doubt and endless strain,
Validation from others, my constant chain.
But in the dark, I’m left to roam,
Wishing for a place to call home.

I try to be happy—God knows I try.
I wear the smile, say the right words,
laugh when I should, nod when expected.
But it never feels real. It never feels mine.

Family gathers, voices rise, laughter spills.
They ask why I stay away,
why I choose the quiet over the noise,
why I don’t try to belong.

But how do I explain
that solitude is easier than pretending?
That I hold my distance
not out of pride, but out of self-preservation?
That I stay away so I don’t spill my pain,
so I don’t ruin their joy with my silence?

They call me distant, cold, uninterested.
They push, they pry, they force me into things
I once loved but now feel like burdens.
And when I resist, I become the problem,
the one who kills the vibe.

But they don’t know what lingers in my mind—
the thoughts that loop, the memories that bite,
the what-ifs that keep me up at night.
I make up stories that feel too real,
convince myself I’m losing it,
but maybe I’m not. Maybe this is just life.

And maybe one day,
they’ll sit around laughing, not noticing I’m gone.
Maybe they’ll call my name and get silence back.
Maybe they’ll wonder why I never said a word.
And maybe, just maybe—
they’ll finally listen.