Cindy Was Right
May 4, 2025 Cindy was right. I love too much— they say it's soft, they say it's such a foolish way to lose your fight— but hearts like mine still burn so bright.
Cindy was right. I wore their pain like second skin, held space for storms they held within. I stayed through seasons they let go— while they watched flowers, I braved snow.
Cindy was right. To feel too deep can break you fast, when you’re the first and always last. Your hands are kind, your voice sincere— but no one stays to truly hear.
Cindy was right— being broken too much isn't weak. It’s scars that sing, though none dare speak. It’s giving warmth with bloodied hands, while no one helps you learn to stand.
Cindy was right. I poured my light in every room, but they just let me chase my doom. They smiled in sun, I cried in rain— my open heart, their silent gain.
Cindy was right. I said “I’m sorry” far too loud for caring more than they allowed. As if compassion had a cost— as if my love meant I was lost.
Cindy was right. I begged for crumbs, still fed them gold. They left me out, alone and cold. They took my fire, then left me bare— while I still hoped that they would care.
Cindy was right. The warmest hearts are worn and tired, from lifting others uninspired. We don’t burn out from giving all— we burn from never being called.
