Why does it feel like blame follows me
even when I’m only trying to survive?
This is my first time living too.
I know it’s yours as well,
but sometimes it feels like you want me to hurry—
like my becoming is taking too long,
like your disappointments have learned my name.
Maybe I carry some of the weight of where you are.
But I didn’t ask to be born holding it.
I love you.
And still, I am angry.
Still, I am tender in places no one checks on.
They say I’m “too emotional,”
but no one asks how many times I was hurt first.
How many times my pain was redirected back at me
for daring to match the energy I was given.
You made me strong.
Strong like steel.
Strong like walls that don’t let sound escape.
You placed me in this environment
and told me to bloom anyway.
So I dig.
I scrape.
I cut myself free inch by inch,
until happiness feels like something I had to bleed for.
I didn’t ask to be here.
I only asked to be loved.
And now, when I pull away
and you reach for me,
it feels like you forget the very walls you built around my heart—
walls I’m still trapped behind.
Thank you for my strength.
But strength is heavy when it’s never set down.
So I ask myself quietly, again and again:
At what cost do I keep surviving
the people I love?
And when do I finally get to be soft
without being punished for it?
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