Don't Worry About Me

Don’t worry about me.

That’s the line I hand out like candy.

Easy. Sweet.

Disarming enough to make people stop asking.

I say it when I’m tired.

I say it when I’m buried.

I say it when I’m screaming inside but my voice has been evicted

from the lease of my own mouth.

Don’t worry about me.

I’ve got it covered.

Even when my chest feels like a locked box

full of overdue bills,

missed calls I didn’t return,

and feelings I forgot how to name.

I perform peace.

My smile is practiced.

My laugh is timed.

I know the right inflection to make “I’m good” sound believable.

I should’ve been an actress.

Or maybe I already am.

I carry silence like a secret.

Like something holy.

Like a sin I’m protecting someone else from.

I answer everyone else’s emergencies

with a calm voice and soft hands.

But I cry quietly.

In the bathroom.

On the floor.

With the fan on and the faucet running,

so no one hears my breaking.

I don’t say I’m exhausted.

I don’t say I’m afraid.

I don’t say I’m running on fumes

or that sometimes I fantasize about disappearing,

not in a tragic way

just long enough to breathe again

without holding everything up with both hands.

I carry stories no one knows.

Pain that didn’t make it to social media.

Rage I swallow because the world doesn’t like loud women.

Fear that if I stop being “the strong one,”

there will be nothing left holding the walls up.

But I still get up.

I still cook.

I still listen.

I still give.

Because who am I if I’m not useful?

The strong ones don’t get wellness checks.

No one thinks to ask how I’m really doing

because I make it look easy

polished

presentable.

But I am tired of holding space for everyone else

when no one notices I’ve run out of room for me.

Some nights I lie awake

not from insomnia

from the weight.

Of being dependable.

Of being everything.

Of being nothing more than what I can offer.

I write poems no one reads.

Text drafts I never send.

Notes in my phone that sound like prayers.

Or confessions.

Or both.

I miss me.

The version who used to dream.

The one who thought rest was a right, not a luxury.

The one who didn’t fake fine.

But I know the role.

And I’ve played it well.

So if you ask me how I’m doing,

I’ll probably say it again.

I’ll smile,

maybe nod,

and repeat the lie we’ve all agreed to believe:

Don’t worry about me.

I’m fine.

I’m always fine.

That’s what strong people say, right?

PART 2

But what I didn’t say was

I’m slipping.

I don’t know how to say it out loud.

That I don’t feel connected to anything lately.

That I float through days like a shadow with good posture.

That sometimes I get scared I’ll never feel real joy again.

That maybe this version of me, the helper, the healer, the strong one

is just a costume I forgot how to take off.

I can fake my way through conversations.

I can encourage others.

I can smile in photos.

But the truth?

I miss the sound of someone saying my name like it matters.

I miss being chosen, not needed.

Held, not handled.

Sometimes I stare into the mirror and wonder if anyone would notice

if I cracked all the way through.

But I keep going.

Because the world still spins and bills need paying and people need me.

And even though I ache, I still love.

I still believe.

And somewhere inside this body

I’m still hoping someone will look close enough to see

the silent parts of me waving for help.