You bore the sky so long and well—
Your spine a rod, your breath suppressed—
No mortal saw the private hell
Of constellations on your chest.

Your brother’s debt. Your mother’s fears.
The job that bled you dry and pale.
Your child’s unspoken, unshed tears…
All stacked upon your shoulders’ scale.

You learned to shift the weight with grace,
To make the crushing look like dance.
No sign of strain upon your face—
Just sweat that soaked your second chance.

Till one still Tuesday, coming home,
You gripped the wheel and could not move.
The sky you carried turned to stone—
A paralyzing, silent groove.

No grand collapse, no thunderclap—
Just muscles locked in mute revolt.
The world still spinning in your lap—
The fault line grinding to a halt.

Atlas breaks his posture now—
The heavens crack against the floor.
The sacred, suffocating vow:
"I cannot hold this anymore."