The Weight of Her Shadow

I speak to you in fragments,

careful, measured, restrained,

because I know accountability

is a language you never learned.

You call me daughter,

but the word feels hollow,

as if I’ve been cast in a role

I never auditioned for:

caretaker, buffer,

the only hand left

to steady you.

I dream of silence,

of a life where your name

doesn’t press against my chest

like a stone I can’t set down.

Distance feels like oxygen,

yet here I remain,

because if I leave

you have no one.

It is not love that keeps me

not anymore.

but duty, thin and fraying,

tied to the ache

of knowing what abandonment

would make of you.

Still, my spirit counts the steps

toward an eventual freedom,

a day when my tired heart

can rest unburdened,

when I am no longer

both daughter and anchor,

both wound and bandage.

Until then,

I carry you carefully,

but always at arm’s length,

already practicing the art

of letting go.

I stay,

not because I want to,

not because you’ve earned it,

but because I’m the only one left.

You do not see the weight you’ve placed on me,

you do not own the hurt you’ve caused.

I long for silence,

for distance,

for peace.

One day,

I will let go

and the sky will feel lighter.

I am not her keeper.

I am not her cure.

I can choose peace.

I can let go.