In a world that spun too fast,
they whispered the rule—
first, secure your own mask,
but they never learned
how to fit it.
Their hands, frantic,
grasped at ours,
pulling us into their storm,
tightening the straps
until our breath was thin,
until the air was no longer ours.
They saw the clouds,
felt the pressure,
but never saw
how their own lungs were hollow,
how the wind was too cold
for them to breathe.
They never took their own mask,
only ours—
a lie wrapped in love,
strangling us all.
They thought they were saving us,
but their grip was too tight,
their hearts were too heavy,
filling our lungs with their panic.
In trying to protect,
they forgot:
if they couldn't breathe,
they couldn’t help us breathe.
And so, we wore the mask,
pressed too hard against our skin,
the seams never holding,
the air always too thin.
A cycle that turned on repeat,
love, pain, discipline,
each breath an echo
of something broken,
something never fixed.
They tried,
but never understood
that a mask only works
if you wear it first—
only when they breathe
can they save us.
But we stood there,
choking on the same air,
never having the chance
to claim it as our own.
I try to acknowledge the struggles we faced growing up, the traumas we survived, without excusing my parents role, i still credit them for doing what they thought was best in their individual circumstances. I am grateful for my parents, and if they had the resources to fix their masks who knows how different our lives could be
