I gave myself two minutes
to silently sob—
the most gut‑wrenching kind of crying,
the kind that never makes a sound.
Then I stopped.
What’s the point?
Why cry?
Why am I crying?
I don’t even care enough to cry.
I just switch my emotions off.
I got up,
took my meds,
washed my face,
got ready for bed
like I wasn’t breaking inside,
like I’m not still splintering quietly,
like I don’t just need
a damn hug.
But I don’t have the energy
to pretend everything is okay
right now.
I’m scared
I’m not going to make it
through the holidays.
I don’t want to be with someone
who doesn’t have the time for me—
I know life is hard,
I know they’re tired,
I know they’re overwhelmed,
and yes,
I’m a lot.
I get it.
But I want that version of care.
I want someone to really see me.
Maybe I’m selfish,
maybe I only think of myself,
but don’t I deserve that too?
And yeah, I stay home.
Yeah, I’m lazy.
Yeah, life is messy.
But I try.
Every day I try so hard
to be good,
to be better,
to fight battles
I know I’ll never fully win—
and still,
every damn day,
I get up anyway.
I just want someone
who really sees me.
I need them.
Because I’m struggling,
and I know I’m hurting,
and it’s so hard to act normal
when I’m this tired,
this drained,
this hollowed out.
I feel like people only care
when I’m polished,
when I’m pretending,
not when I’m messy,
bare,
shaking,
barely holding it together.
I’m easier to love
when I’m pretending.
So tell me—
where is my safe space?