Am I a tiny seed,
buried under helping hands,
growing sideways, hiding from the sun?
Am I a stitch—pulled tight,
holding others’ pieces together,
coming loose only when no one sees?
This giving
Is it kindness like flowers,
or roots that start to hold me too tight?
I mix up being nice with feeling I have to,
saying yes with feeling loved,
forgetting where I end and others begin.
If I say yes too much,
do I start to fade away?
If I say no,
will I still be me,
or will the quiet be too big and scary?
I have a body that bends and bends
but is it mine,
or for the ones who lean on it?
Who am I
without the weight of others?
What is left
when I stop feeling I need to please?
Beneath this giving, I feel a small ache
not sad, but hungry
to know who I was meant to be.
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