Everything I Do Is for You

Everything I Do Is for You

I get up when I’m tired, for you.

I hold in tears I don’t want you to see.

I rearrange my world, my time, my self,

just to make your day smoother.

I say yes to things I don’t feel like doing,

because I think you’ll smile.

I put off my needs, my rest, my dreams,

because you come first — always.

I weather your moods like storms,

let the sharpness of your words

slice through my spirit,

because I know you don’t mean it.

But still — it hurts.

I try. God, I try.

To be calm.

To be patient.

To hold space for you to be human

while forgetting that I’m human, too.

I take you places.

I plan things to make you happy.

And when you turn around and throw it back —

with attitude, with rudeness, with that voice —

it makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or disappear.

Because it feels like you don’t see me.

Like I’m invisible unless I’m useful.

Like the better I treat you, the worse I’m treated.

I know you’re still growing.

I know your feelings are loud and your brain is still figuring things out.

But sometimes I need you to see that I’m doing my best.

And that best?

It’s for you.

All of it.

Always.