It’s always the same.
A message.
Not a “how are you?”
Not a “wanna hang out?”
Just—
“Can you do this?”
“Can you give me that?”
And I do.
Because I love them.
Because I thought family meant more
than just being convenient.
But I’m a person too.
I have long nights,
loud thoughts,
quiet breakdowns
where I wish someone would ask me how I’m holding up.
I listen.
God, I listen.
All day.
Every day.
I carry stories that aren’t mine,
because no one else wants to.
It feels like my chest has grown calluses—
thick, aching spots
where love used to live
before it was worn down
by constant reaching hands
and no reaching hearts.
And every time my phone lights up,
my chest tightens,
breath catches,
not from excitement—
but like I’ve been winded.
Because I already know,
it’s not for me,
it’s from me that they want something.
Maybe I’m too much.
Or maybe they just never saw me
the way I saw them.
It hurts.
More than I’ll ever say out loud.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC
It’s always the same.
A message.
Not a “how are you?”
Not a “wanna hang out?”
Just—
“Can you do this?”
“Can you give me that?”
And I do.
Because I love them.
Because I thought family meant more
than just being convenient.
But I’m a person too.
I have long nights,
loud thoughts,
quiet breakdowns
where I wish someone would ask me how I’m holding up.
I listen.
God, I listen.
All day.
Every day.
I carry stories that aren’t mine,
because no one else wants to.
It feels like my chest has grown calluses—
thick, aching spots
where love used to live
before it was worn down
by constant reaching hands
and no reaching hearts.
And every time my phone lights up,
my chest tightens,
breath catches,
not from excitement—
but like I’ve been winded.
Because I already know,
it’s not for me,
it’s from me that they want something.
Maybe I’m too much.
Or maybe they just never saw me
the way I saw them.
It hurts.
More than I’ll ever say out loud.
Original work by me :)
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| drk.poet_ |
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