I wake up
before the sun has even sighed,
and wear a smile
like armor—
not joy.
Just a habit.
A mask.
Another role
I didn’t ask for.
They call me strong.
Reliable.
“Solid.”
But solid doesn’t mean whole.
It means no room to fall apart.
I say “I’m fine”
like it’s a reflex,
like breathing.
But I don’t even know
what I’m trying to keep alive anymore.
Every day—
I show up.
For them.
For work.
For birthdays.
For broken hearts
that aren’t mine,
for people who never stop
to ask
how much I’ve bled
under the surface.
I don’t reach for the bottle.
I don’t light it up.
Not because I don’t feel the urge—
but because I know
how many would break
if I did.
And I can’t risk
disappointing
the people who need me
to be okay.
Even if I’m not.
Especially if I’m not.
I’ve mastered
self-denial.
I’ve learned how to fold my dreams
into napkins
and tuck them in my pocket—
quiet.
Forgotten.
Like they were never mine
to begin with.
Because when you’re the one
everyone leans on,
there’s no space
to lean back.
And truth is…
I’m tired.
Tired of saving spaces
for everyone but me.
Tired of pretending
this doesn’t hurt.
Tired of walking past mirrors
and not recognizing
who’s staring back.
I want to scream.
Not for attention—
for freedom.
For a day
where I can just choose
me.
Where I’m not afraid
that choosing myself
means losing everyone else.
I want
to fall apart
without apology.
To feel
without filtering.
To cry
without covering it up
in laughter and “it’s all good” lies.
But instead,
I stay.
Steady.
Smiling.
Silent.
Because that’s what they need.
Because that’s who I became.
Because sometimes,
being the strong one
means
never being seen.
But someday…
maybe I’ll speak louder.
Maybe I’ll step forward.
Maybe I’ll say:
“This is who I am. And I deserve to be here too.”
And that day…
will be mine.
Martytalks Daliy 