people pleaser

Torn is what I am—

a thread pulled between hands that do not belong to me,

Everyone has a claim:

one says be softer, another says be strong.

I bend until I resemble belonging,

and call it love.

Each attempt to speak

becomes a choke,

a quiet rebellion collapsing inward.

Fear is the invisible puppeteer,

its fingers made of approval and shame.

It tugs at my wrists,

wraps itself around my ribs,

and whispers, don’t disappoint them.

If you could see it—

the hands around my voice,

the chains around my certainty,

the marionette strings tied to my spine—

you would not call me polite.

You would call me bound.

I am tired of my actions being choreographed.

Of smiling on command.

Of mistaking compliance for peace.

There is nothing holy

about disappearing quietly.

But still—

I bow when they pull the strings,

because somewhere,

I was taught that love

looks like surrender.