Question

Poem: I don't have a name for it yet
By: Layla aka me

I learned how to smile
before I learned how to speak about pain.
It sat in my chest like a locked room,
and nobody ever asked for the key.

They say “you’re strong”
like it’s a compliment
but strength just means
no one came when I was breaking.

I carry memories that don’t feel like mine,
like they were forced into my hands
before I knew how to drop them.
And now they cling to me
in the quiet,
in the dark,
in the seconds between breathing.

I don’t cry the way people expect.
It’s quieter than that.
It’s staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m.
wondering why everything still hurts
even when nothing is happening.

I tried to grow around it
the damage, the silence, the shame
but it grew with me.
Now it lives in my laugh,
in my trust,
in the way I flinch at kindness
like it’s temporary.

People think healing is loud
breakthroughs and tears and relief.
But mine is just…
enduring.
Day after day
of pretending the weight isn’t crushing me.

I am tired
in a way sleep can’t fix.
A kind of tired that sits in the soul
and whispers
“this is all there is.”

And the worst part is
I don’t even know who I would’ve been
if none of this happened.

Just someone
who doesn’t feel like this.

But I’ll never meet her.