The Weight of care

I am tired.

Of corridors that echo grief,

of sterile air and sleepless light.

Each visit folds into the last—

the same white walls,

the same silent waiting.

I love him.

But love has grown heavy,

a duty stitched through bone.

My hands remember every hour,

each trembling cup,

each whispered “it’s alright”

that I no longer believe.

I am a patient too—

unmended, unseen.

My wounds make no sound,

yet they ache all the same.

At times, I wish to vanish,

to walk where no one knows my name.

To rest. To simply breathe.

But then I see my daughters—

their light, their laughter—

and I return.

This is my circle:

love, fatigue, devotion, despair.

I walk it quietly.

Not because I am 

strong,

but because I must.