The Poem She Won't Read Without Crying

I know your name but not the one on your driver's license. The one that only exists when it's 2 a.m. and you can't sleep and the mask you wear for the world is on the nightstand next to your phone. That's the person I'm writing this for. Not the one who says I'm fine with a smile that could win awards. Not the one who holds it together in the meeting and the school pickup and the dinner and the dishes and the bedtime story and the lock-checking and the lying-down that isn't sleep but performance. I'm writing this for the woman who cries in the shower because it's the only room with a lock and running water that sounds like nothing. You are not falling apart. You are a house that has held everyone for so long that nobody thought to ask whether the foundation needed anything. I see you. I see the grocery list that is actually a prayer. I see the calendar that is actually a cage. I see the smile that is actually a door you close so gently that nobody hears the lock. This poem is not advice. This poem is not a solution. This poem is someone finally saying: You are doing an impossible thing. And the fact that you are still doing it is not ordinary. It is the bravest thing I've ever seen and I wanted you to know that someone noticed.