Living just isn’t hard enough.
The bills arrive too gently.
The ghosts knock too politely.
The past doesn’t press its thumb
quite deep enough into the wound.
So you help.
You bring your chaos like a casserole
no one asked for,
set it steaming on my table,
call it love.
You mistake my endurance
for appetite.
I am the man who swallows storms
so the children can sleep.
The one who boards up windows
with splinters already in his hands.
The cornerstone, they call me,
as if stone does not crack
under cathedral weight.
Living just isn’t hard enough.
So you add your sharp opinions,
your sideways blame,
your crises born of boredom.
You lace my quiet with accusation
and call it honesty.
You hand me your wreckage
and ask why I look tired.
I have crawled through worse.
Through childhoods that left teeth marks,
Through nights that smelled like liquor,
And through mornings where the mirror
was an adversary.
I built a spine from that rubble.
Mortared it with restraint.
Taught my heart to beat
like a disciplined drum,
Steady.
Even when the war won’t end.
But steady is not the same as unbreakable.
Living just isn’t hard enough,
so you test the theory.
You poke the scar
to see if it still answers.
You confuse silence with surrender.
Understand this.
I am kind because I choose to be,
not because I am soft.
I carry you because I can,
not because I am meant to.
One day
I will set down what is not mine.
Your bitterness.
Your manufactured emergencies.
Your need to see me strained
just to prove I can endure it.
And when I do,
you will call it cold.
But it will be the first warm thing
I have done for myself.
Living has always been hard enough.
I just made it look survivable.