You don’t have to smile with a mouth made of ache,
Or carry the world just for carrying’s sake.
You don’t have to squeeze where it bruises your skin,
Or bow to the silence that creeps from within.

The stars don’t ask us to shine in their way,
They just burn, flawed and perfect, till night becomes day.
And yes, you are cut from the same woven thread,
Not broken, not wrong, just bravely misread.

So loosen the mask, let the tiredness fall,
The act was convincing—but you don’t owe us all.
You’re real. You’re enough. Your existence is true.
The world’s more itself for the shape that is you.