Supposed to be a super mom,
a super worker,
a super woman.
Sometimes,
not even a good enough mom,
not even a decent worker,
just a subpar woman.
Somehow,
I manage to shove, and stuff, and hide
whatever the fuck this is
down inside
somewhere
my kids won’t be able to see it,
but I can still hear it,
the frustration in my voice,
the exasperation,
the light,
my light,
just dying,
slowly, slowly dying.
I simply don’t have enough to give to responsible adults
whose simple requests are far too much for me to bear
at this single moment in time.
I don’t have any answers,
or reminders,
or assistance,
or leadership left.
I am just a shell of who I used to be,
or of who I pretended to be,
or wanted to be,
or expected my fucking self to be.
I’ve been down this road too many times before.
Others happiness is too much.
Others struggles are too much.
I. Can. Not. Help. You.
a girl who writes 