She Is Not What They Say
They say she’s tireless.
But I’ve seen her sit
with her head in her hands
long after the lights go out.
They say she’s strong.
But I’ve watched her fingers tremble
when no one is asking for anything.
They say she’s always there.
But I know the places
she longs to go
when she’s nowhere at all.
She is not just the one who shows up.
She is the one who remembers
the names of birds,
the smell of rain,
the way her own laughter used to sound
before it was needed elsewhere.
She is not just the helper.
She is the keeper of stories
no one has asked to hear.
She is the artist
who paints in silence,
the dancer
whose rhythm was borrowed
by everyone else’s footsteps.
She is not just the one who holds others.
She is the one
who deserves to be held.
And I see her.
Not just the part that serves.
But the part that dreams.
The part that aches.
The part that waits
for someone to know her.