There’s a weight I carry,
but you wont hear about it.
I don’t know how to say the words, they get stuck somewhere between my throat and my fear.

Every time I think of opening up,
I tell myself,
“you’re overreacting.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“No one can fix it anyway.”

Its mine.
My mess.
Why make it someone else’s?
What could they even do?

Talking about it feels like asking for pity.
Like I’m begging for attention I don’t deserve.

And if I tried,
if I really spoke,
I know I’d cry.
The kind of cry that leaves you raw and ashamed.

And what if they look at me like I’m weak?
Like I’m broken beyond repair?

Most days I tell myself my feelings don’t count.
Others have it worse.
I should just handle it.

And so I don’t speak.
i swallow it whole.
I wear a smile that lies.

But when you need someone when you are falling apart,
I’m the first to listen.
I’ll sit in the dark with you.
I’ll carry what you can’t.

Funny how I can give kindness, but can’t let myself take it.
I don’t know how.
I don’t think I’m allowed.
And deep down, I’m so scared of being a burden that i’d rather bleed in silence.