I am not your therapist,
though you treat me as such—
your cries find my shoulders,
your chaos my clutch.
I am the eldest, the second mother,
the one who raised my little brother,
held him when storms turned the world to grey,
taught him the words you failed to say.

No one asks me how I’ve coped,
how I’ve carried the weight,
how I’ve silenced my needs
to meet your endless debates.
I’ve lived on fumes of my own advice,
stacked bricks of wisdom to build my life—
because if I didn’t,
I’d be where you are:
stuck spinning in circles,
blaming your scars.

You don’t take my counsel,
but still, here you come,
expecting solutions I’ve carved from stone,
though my hands are blistered,
though my heart’s my own.
And when the silence presses its heavy face,
when the mirror whispers I’ve no safe place,
I remind myself of the life I’ve made—
not from handouts, but from debts I paid.

So no, I’m not your therapist.
I’m the eldest daughter.
I pour from a cup you’ve never bothered
to refill or hold, yet here I stand—
resilient, thriving, my life in my hands.
Because I learned the hard way
what you refuse to see:
the only person who’s taking care of me
is me.