they come to you, arms outstretched,  
            voices cracked open like old leather.  
                    you gather their sorrows,  
                           tuck them neatly between your ribs.  

    you are the light in their storm,  
            the hands pulling them from the water,  
                    the voice that hums, "it will be okay."  

    but when the tide rises for you?  
            when your own chest caves like a hollow house?  

    silence.  
            not cruel, not malicious—  
                    just absence.  

    the weight is yours alone to carry.  
            you, the listener.  
                    you, the healer.  
                            you, the foundation that must never crack.  

    (but sometimes, even stone crumbles.)  

    when will someone pull you from the flood?  
            when will someone sit beside you and say,  
                    not in passing, not out of duty—  
                            but because they mean it—  

                                   "it will be okay."