How do you live,
when your heart is stitched
from threads of sacrifice,
and every breath you take
is given away
to someone else’s need?

Is it selfish
to whisper for comfort
even when I do not weep,
to long for love
that does not demand a price,
that holds me whole
without asking me to split myself apart?

Is it selfish to want
someone to see me,
to notice the small things,
the shadows I hide in silence,
the quiet ways I unravel
while smiling all the same?

I give, I give, I give—
and still I wait.
But the world looks past me,
taking my light
and never asking
if I am burning out.

If it is selfish to want this,
then I am selfish—
starving for a love
that may never arrive.

And maybe that is my fate:
to be the comfort,
the strength,
the steady hands for others—
while no one ever learns
how heavy my own heart feels,
when the room finally goes quiet.