birthday + i made a poem

happy birthday to me

anyways 

here's a translation of my poem i did

---

i don’t want to be strong.

don’t want to understand everything.

don’t want to look for reasons

and realize i don’t even want this at all.

i just want to be.

not someone.

not who i should be.

just me.

for a second.

for a minute.

i never asked for this hell.

i didn’t choose to be the one who carries others’ pain.

who says sorry for someone else’s yelling,

who makes peace so no one cries,

but ends up crying alone.

i’m tired of being the one who stays quiet

so the fight doesn’t start.

the one who puts out fires

and burns in them at the same time.

tired of all the expectations

that i’ll be okay,

that i’m “a man,” “strong,” “funny,” “patient.”

tired of the masks

i never made for myself.

and i’m tired of being tired.

and tired of being tired of being tired.

like everything inside is —

a scream with no voice.

a fire with no heat.

a sun with no light.

a noise with no sound.

something without anything.

i’m not angry.

i just don’t get it.

why love has to come with pain.

why to keep someone warm

i have to burn in it.

why i have to prove i’m human

even to those who call themselves close.

i don’t want to be

the one people always ask to understand.

the one who reaches first

even when no one’s reaching back.

and if something’s still burning in me —

maybe it means there’s ash.

but ash isn’t the end.

it’s the start of ground

where something might grow

someday.

maybe.

i remember the days

when no one asked

“how are you?”

just

“you’ll be okay, right?”

and i nodded.

yeah. sure.

yeah.

yeah.

…yeah?

but now

i don’t want to be okay.

i just want to breathe.

just breathe.

just exist.

not high up.

not rock bottom.

just somewhere

i can live.

i want a world

where silence doesn’t mean “go away”

but “i’m here.”

where “i’m with you” isn’t a promise

but real.

where crying

isn’t weakness

but a way to say:

“i’m still here. and i’m lucky i still am.”

i wasn’t supposed to pick

who to listen to in court,

whose pain to carry,

whose pain to forgive,

while mine

gets buried inside.

i say “i’m tired” so much

i start thinking maybe i don’t have the right.

like “you’re still alive” means

“you’re fine.”

but tired is a kind of death too —

just slower.

quieter.

the kind where you smile

so no one else feels bad.

---

i think about “her.”

how easy it could be

if i could just say

“i’m with you”

and that would be enough.

not for attention —

just for silence.

that silence

where you’re not alone.

but for now

i just sit

in this night

in this room

in myself

and hold on.

and look at this text

that has a beginning

but no ending.

and not because it has to be that way.

but because i’m still here.

and if i’m here

i’m still alive.

and if i’m alive —

maybe something

can still happen.

maybe there’s light.

maybe there’s laughter.

maybe there’s “hi.”

maybe there’s a hand.

maybe there’s me

without the weight.

without the mask.

without the “should.”

just me. that’s it.

and maybe one day

someone will f

ind this

and say:

“i felt that too.”

and even that —

even just that —

will be enough

to know

i’m me for a reason.

and you are you for a reason too.