Not your punching bag

Some days I feel

like I was born padded.

Like God stitched extra softness into me

so the blows wouldn’t bruise as loud.

People come to me

with fists full of anger,

with mouths full of sharp edges,

with wounds they refuse to tend

and somehow

I am the place they land.

I absorb.

I translate.

I soothe.

I forgive.

I turn their chaos into comfort

like it’s my assignment.

Like I was put here

to be the shock absorber

for everybody else’s storms.

The healer.

The listener.

The strong one.

But nobody asks

what it costs

to keep being the ground

others slam their pain into.

Nobody notices

how cracked the concrete gets.

I am tired

of being resilient.

Tired of understanding.

Tired of being the safe place

for people who are not safe for me.

I am not a punching bag.

I am not a sacrifice.

I am not a spiritual sponge

sent to wring myself out for everyone else.

I am human.

And even healers

bleed.