The Hand I was Dealt

Tired, still breathing in a life I would’ve never chosen for myself

The Hand I Was Dealt

I didn’t ask for this deck.
Didn’t shuffle it.
Didn’t cheat.
Still ended up holding
a losing hand.

Some people were born
into sunlight —
warm kitchens,
steady hands,
love that didn’t feel conditional.

I was born into survival.

Into learning how to read moods
before I learned to read books.
Into shrinking myself
so the room wouldn’t explode.
Into loving people
who only loved me
when it was convenient.

I am tired
of being “strong.”
Tired of being the lesson.
Tired of being the almost,
the almost chosen,
the almost enough.

Why does my life feel like
a house with cracked foundations
that I keep trying to decorate
like it isn’t sinking?

I hate that I had to grow up
so fast.
I hate that softness feels unsafe.
I hate that love feels like
something I have to earn
with blood and apologies.

I look at other people
and wonder
what it must feel like
to not be in constant repair.

To wake up
without bracing.

This life —
it feels like a coat
two sizes too small,
stitched from other people’s damage,
and somehow
I’m the one expected
to wear it gracefully.

I didn’t ask for this story.

But here I am —
ink-stained,
tired,
still breathing
through a life
I never would have chosen.