This is another poem,
like all the others
written by wannabe,
heartbroken,
lost children
who saw too much,
listened too well,
and felt pain too often.

I’ve forgotten how many times
this has happened,
how many times I’ve
unknowingly been placed into situations
or held expectations
that failed at everything but
bringing me discontent.

I could count on my fingers
the number of recent incidents
fueling this poem.
I could star all of the conversations
and write you a book of footnotes
explaining.

It wouldn’t be useful though,
because no one seems to realize
what is happening once their words
leave their lips,
or when their lack of action falls short.

Growing up,
I was told I had an old soul.
Looking back,
I think that means
I had to grow up too fast –
learning the right cues,
holding in my uncertainties,
nodding accordingly.

Today,
I try to understand
and I try to put myself first,
but time and again,
I find myself sacrificing
at the words of others.

One of these days,
I just might be the martyr
you never asked for.