“Performing strength,”
is what the elder called it.
And I thought:
Is that why my mom
is so tired now?
Is that what is happening
to my friends?
To me?
Because for years,
I performed
the act of normal.
Performance
was all I knew.
Performing stable.
Performing okay.
Performing getting better.
The only thing
that never seemed
performative
was love.
I gave it
like I breathed,
because it was gifted—
by Bachué,
by Chía,
by Creator.
But you cannot
give love
to everyone.
And you cannot
receive everything
just because
it is offered.
Performing strength
does not mean
you are strong.
Giving love
does not mean
everyone deserves it,
or that anyone
has the right
to take it.
Everything became twisted.
Even the times
love was reciprocated
became deformed.
The masks.
The costumes.
Eventually,
I could no longer
perform the acts.
And without them,
I could finally see
how much strength
I had spent,
how much love
I had poured out,
how much of myself
I had mistaken
for something endless.
I had been used.
I had been used up.