𝓡ere

ALT "Selfless to Death" "Parents think about what they couldn't give, while children think about what they couldn't get" The grief lives in me like a second spine. I’m in despair, not because I hate them, but because I loved them so much I kept making myself smaller and smaller, until I forgot what I even needed. I trained myself not to want, so I wouldn’t feel the ache of not having. I learned to smile through hunger for a kind of love that doesn’t come with guilt. And now I don’t know how to ask for anything without feeling like a burden. © naurscripts

ALT "Selfless to Death" I treat people who offer me crumbs of kindness like saviors. And yet, I treat the people who actually raised me—who gave everything they had for me—like they’re disposable when I’m angry or overwhelmed. My mother’s heartbreak cracks something open in me too. It doesn’t make my pain any less real, though. I love them. God, I love them—but I’m breaking under the weight of being their good daughter, while still being who they expect me to be in return. Her sadness carves into me like a dull knife, but so does this unbearable pressure I carry every day. They never asked me to repay them, not with words. But in my heart, I feel like I must. © naurscripts

ALT "Selfless to Death" They’ve never said I owe them. Never called me their investment. But still, I feel it. That pressure sits on my chest like stone. It whispers that I can’t choose myself without being selfish. That I can't struggle without guilt. I know they sacrificed. I know they tried. But no one sees what it did to me—to always come second, to never feel allowed to need or hurt or simply ask for space without the crushing guilt. Every time I want to say, please see me too, it feels like I’m setting fire to the bridge between us. Like I’m letting them see the daughter they never wanted: soft, tired, and human. I swallow it back every time, smile instead, because I’m terrified they’ll think I’m ungrateful. © naurscripts

ALT "Selfless to Death" My heart pounds like it wants to escape my ribs, and my head feels like it might burst from all I keep inside. And yet, I smile. I speak softly. I play the part. I cry behind closed doors, then come out like nothing’s wrong. Because good daughters don’t make trouble. Good daughters are supposed to be strong. But I’m so tired of being good. I’m so tired of choosing them over me, over and over again. And what terrifies me most is this: if I finally choose myself, I don’t know if there’ll be anything left of me to come back to. © naurscripts