Don’t Call Me Brave

Don’t call me brave.

I didn’t climb out of the fire — I learned to sit in it

Without screaming.

That’s not courage. That’s resignation dressed as grace.

That’s what happens

When the world forgets you’re still burning.

Don’t call me a warrior.

I didn’t choose this battlefield.

I woke up on it.

With a flag I didn’t raise

And wounds I didn’t cause —

Only to be told how noble I look in armor

That barely fits.

You think strength looks like silence.

Like holding your tongue while your ribs turn to glass.

Like laughing while your heart

Folds itself in corners

Where it won’t get stepped on.

But strength isn't smiling in pain.

It’s knowing you shouldn’t have to.

Do you want the truth?

I am tired.

The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix,

The kind of tired that builds homes in your bones

And whispers in your ear at night,

"Nothing gets better. You just get better at hiding."

I have learned to nod when praised,

To say thank you

When what I really mean is:

Please stop looking at my suffering and calling it survival.

Please stop mistaking endurance for peace.

Please stop thinking I asked for this fight.

Because bravery, real bravery,

Would’ve been walking away

Before I broke.

And I didn’t.

So don’t call me brave.

Just call me here.

Still here.

That’s all I have left.