#scrapofthought

said I was yours.

You marked every inch of me,

told me I'm beautiful.

You devoured my being,

then declared eternal love.

And when we both finished,

you said it was just what I wanted,

nothing more.

But you started it!

You lit the fire.

—why did you walked away like it was mine to burn?

How can I tell him I'm still not over it? How can I say that I still need help? How can I handle this all by myself?

It sucks because I have learned how to handle pain: being with him.

...But how can I handle the pain that was caused by him?

Wait, is it possible

To love someone and lose the spark,

To crave the light but be trapped in the dark?

Is it possible

For love to linger yet feel like it's fading,

For a heart to whisper, "Stay," while breaking?

Wait, is it possible

To be in love but feel clipped and caged, To long for flight while standing on a stage?

Is it possible

To float in the weightlessness of devotion, While drowning in the heaviness of emotion?

Is it possible

For love to be both warmth and prison,

For passion to burn yet beg for permission?

Or should I let it die, And set fire to the pieces left behind?

Maybe it's better if I'll commit arson.

Since the moment I graduated, my life hasn’t been my own. Every responsibility—groceries, bills, financial support—shifted to my hands as if it was a given, as if it was expected. And when I dare to do something for myself, when I finally buy the things I’ve been longing for, the judgment comes swiftly. Not from my father, not from my sister, but from outsiders who believe they have a say in my life.

"You should prioritize your family."

"You should put your sister's education first."

"You should support your dad before thinking about yourself."

Should. Should. Should. When did my existence become defined by obligations rather than choices?

Weeks turn into months, and the exhaustion deepens. The sacrifices pile up, but no one seems to notice, no one acknowledges the silent burden I carry. I give and give, yet the moment I take something for myself—even the smallest indulgence—it’s met with disapproval, with side-eyes, with words that sting more than they should.

Am I even worthy of this?

My bank account is drained—again. My sister’s enrollment is approaching, and just like before, I’ll watch my savings disappear without hesitation. Because I want to help. Because she deserves an education. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But no matter how much I remind myself that it’s for a good cause, I can’t ignore the quiet ache that settles in my chest when I see my savings vanish in an instant.

That hurts.

Because while I give without regret, the weight of knowing there’s nothing left for me is a pain I don’t know how to silence.

And now, my father’s 60th birthday is approaching in approximately 4 months, and I feel the pressure tightening around me. Everyone's asking what's my plan and what will I do. I want to give him the best, of course, but reality doesn’t bend to wishes. I have bills. I have expenses. I have a life to sustain. I cannot say anything about this yet. Yet, instead of understanding, I am ridiculed.

"She just works in a hotel."

"A Cum Laude, and that’s all she’s doing?"

It’s never enough, is it? No matter how hard I work, no matter how much I give, it will never be enough. The sacrifices go unnoticed, the exhaustion dismissed, the silent cries for rest ignored.

I come home, hoping for a moment of peace—but negativity seeps through every crack. It clings to me, suffocates me, reminds me that I am trapped in a cycle of expectations that never end. I am tired. I am drained. I am angry. I am sad.

Stop. Stop expecting. Stop demanding. Stop assuming that I exist solely to serve.

I have dreams. I have needs. I have limits.

Like how you conceal yours?

How can I hide the trembling fingers

While we're conversing in an open space?

How can I stop myself from smiling

Everytime I catch you stealing glances?

Emotions has its own way of surfacing—

Either by choice or circumstances.

And mine shows through the latter.

How can I learn to show it like you?

Sometimes you care, sometimes you don't.

Sometimes you blush, sometimes you won't.

How can I suppress the things I feel

Just like how you suppress yours?

Or maybe you just didn't feel the same way—