Ive mastered the art of shrinking.
Of softening my ‘no’ int o a maybe just to keep the peace.
I mold myself into what they need,
A smile here,
A favour there,
A thousand yeses when my bones are begging for rest.

They call me kind.
Helpful.
Easy to be around.
But no one sees the cracks beneath the polished version of me I perform on autopilot.

I say sorry for simply existing too loudly.
I apologise when someone else hurt me.
I carry guilt like it’s mine to own, even when it was never meant for me.

And the truth is,
I don’t know what I want anymore.
I’ve been so busy being what everyone else needed that I lost shape of who I was before the pleasing became survival.
Because if they’re happy,
Then maybe I’m safe.
Then maybe I’ll be enough.
Then maybe they’ll stay.

I wonder,
Who would still like me
If I stopped trying so hard?