Don’t call me strong.
That word feels like a notification I forgot to silence—
constant, buzzing, unwanted,
another thing I’m expected to hold together.
I’ve been “resilient” so long
it’s starting to feel like a glitch,
like I’m running on low battery
but everyone assumes I’m still at 100%.
I don’t want applause
for surviving what I never signed up for.
I want someone to notice
the way I go quiet in the middle of a sentence,
how I swallow the parts of me
that feel too heavy to hand over.
See me as breakable—
not in a way that makes me a burden,
but in the way fragile things are treasured,
placed gently in cupped hands,
carried slow.
Handle me like I’m moments from unraveling,
because some nights I am.
And all I want is for someone
to touch the softest parts of me
without expecting them
to be bulletproof.
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