vainearths

I was six when Robert from down the block
pushed me onto a pile of rocks
my mama brushed the dirt off my cheeks,
washed off my bleeding knees
and told me “don’t cry, don’t show
weakness”

and in fifth grade my friend’s cousin passed away and
two days later i overheard some boys
calling her a crybaby

i think maybe i complain a lot about small things
like sore joints or headaches or chapped lips or
how long it is until the next episode of game of thrones
so everyone thinks the only problems in my life
are itty bitty butterflies but

I don’t talk about the bad stuff, you know? I don’t mention
the stuff that’s eating me up, the stuff that makes this skin
feel less like home and more like a prison,
the stuff that’s making my particles disconnect
from one another so i become
atomic dust, i just

i help a lot of people with their burdens, as often as i can
and i know they wouldn’t really mind it if i told them maybe
just a little about how bad it’s getting
but even my closest friends
i never want to bother because i hear their stories
about what they’re carrying and
i don’t want to add to it when they’re sad enough as it is
and when they’re happy, I know exactly
how rare it is for them,
so I don’t want to spoil it

the only thing is
a few days ago, I offered advice to someone who needed a
pick-me-up and she looked me in the eyes and asked
“how is it exactly that you know this stuff”

and I could have unzippered my bones and come
crashing out all over the floor
but instead I shrugged and smiled and said
“That’s what I do. That’s what I’m here for.”