At night the ceiling becomes a map of untraveled roads,
each one labeled with a might-have-been.
With bloodied hands and forced smiles,
I built us a castle,
stacking each brick with devotion,
never noticing how the walls
were slowly becoming a prison.
Now the truth settles in my chest
like a stone I can’t swallow:
I am not enough for you.
Not truly—not as I am.
Maybe I never was….