how can you say you’re miserable in this house,
when every wall bends to your voice?
when dinner waits for your hunger,
and the sun seems to rise just to meet your eyes?

they call you brave for breaking things,
they tuck your tantrums into blankets.
they say you’re tired, you’re sensitive, you need time,
but what do they say for me?

i learn to fold in silence,
to shrink into corners that no one dusts.
i set the table for your storms
and clear the plates after your thunder.

you scream, and they listen.
i whisper, and they leave the room.
i bleed quietly and wipe it up myself—
they call it strength, but never ask if i’m okay.

you get everything you never ask for.
i ask for scraps and get guilt.
they say you’re struggling, that you deserve love,
but what do i deserve?

how can you say you’re miserable here,
when they built this place to keep you warm,
and i’m still sleeping in the cold,
learning how to make blankets out of being forgotten?