There’s this expectation of me that I can’t seem to shake. I know I can’t control the narratives others perceive of me but it’s the me that they prefer that makes me want to scream. The happy one. The smiley one.
If I’m not happy – then something has to be wrong.
Are we not all oceans— constantly shifting and turning?
Constellations scattered across the sky?
Why do you see me as a constant – a North Star you can follow blindly?
I can’t promise you salvation. You won’t find the answers in my eyes— you can peer down as closely as you can but all you will see is the truth: I can’t solve all your problems for you.
I can’t be your North Star—the last, fading strands of hope you hold onto. I won’t cure your loneliness— I have to be able to fight my demons too.
Don’t look at me as I’m if your god then smite when I don’t deliver your blessings quick enough.
Don’t — place these expectations on me without my consent. Don’t place these expectations on me without sharing some of the weight. Please let me be me without needing to explain the chaos in my head.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 