My Cup Should Be Full

My cup should be full.

That’s what they say, isn’t it?

Gratitude. Perspective. Stay positive.

I hear their voices like rain hitting windows

while I stand inside a house with no roof.

But I am tired.

And this cup

this cup I carry every day

it’s almost empty.

I’ve poured and poured

into others’ wounds,

into friendships I tried to resuscitate,

into love that forgot to love me back,

into conversations where I listened

until my ears became shelters for storms

that were never mine.

Everyone drinks from me.

They dip their hands into my warmth

without ever asking

if I have anything left.

And when I turn the cup toward myself,

hoping for even one drop

of comfort, of care, of tenderness

I see the bottom.

Dry.

Silent.

My cup should be full.

But life has a way of taking,

taking,

taking

and I am tired of being the well

no one refills.

I am not selfish for needing.

I am not weak for wanting

to taste my own gentleness.

I deserve to feel nourished,

to wake without the weight of emptiness

cracking through my ribs.

So here I am

holding this cup with shaking hands,

tired, but not done.

One day, I will learn to pour into myself

first.

One day, I will draw boundaries

not apologies.

One day, I will be whole again.

And when that day comes,

my cup won’t just be full it will overflow

For me first