Paper skin, glass heart

Tired in Her Shadow

I tell myself she never meant to break me,
that the venom in her words
was just borrowed from her father's teeth,
that her silence came from a mother
who left her starving for love.
Still, I choke on the same poison every day.

She bends reality until it snaps,
calls me ungrateful when I stagger
under the weight of her moods.
Her highs blaze like wildfires,
her lows collapse like caves,
and I spend my youth
patching walls that were never mine to mend.

I fold myself into shapes she demands—
perfect daughter, silent servant,
obedient shadow at her feet.
But every yes I give
is met with another impossible request.
I am exhausted—
body sagging, mind frayed,
a heart worn down to threads.

My own depression claws back at me,
thick as tar,
but I have no words for anyone else.
Every attempt at honesty
becomes a battlefield,
my voice twisted into weapons
I never meant to wield.

So I stay quiet,
emotionally absent,
a locked chest with no key.
It feels safer to suffocate in silence
than to risk her rage
for speaking truths
that might shatter both of us.

I hate her,
even as I trace the scars she carries.
I hate her,
even as I know she is only repeating
the cruelty she once called home.
And I hate myself
for still wanting her love,
for bleeding myself dry
to keep her satisfied.

But I am so, so tired.
Too tired to keep being
the glue,
the cushion,
the echo of her pain.

I only want to rest.