Mama, Can You See Me?

Mama,

Can you see me

when I’m quiet?

When I sit in my room, hoodie up,

head low, heart loud—

can you hear the storm behind my silence?

I walk like I got it together,

but inside, I trip over questions

with no answers.

Who am I supposed to be?

What does “strong” really mean

when I feel so… breakable?

I know you love me—

you cook it into dinners,

fold it into laundry,

lace it into prayers you whisper when you think I’m asleep.

But sometimes I wonder—

do you know the weight I carry

just trying to exist?

In school, I shrink to fit their mold.

At home, I puff up not to fold.

In the mirror,

I search for someone

I recognize.

Mama, I’m not asking you to fix me.

I just need you to see me—

not just the grades,

or the chores,

or the eye rolls.

See the boy with too many thoughts

and not enough air.

Hold space

for the tears I won’t cry,

for the questions I don’t ask,

for the dreams I’m scared to dream.

Tell me I don’t have to earn your love.

Tell me it’s okay to rest.

Tell me softness is not weakness,

and my heart isn’t too much.

I don’t need you to have the answers—

just walk beside me

while I find them.

I’m still becoming,

still blooming,

still Black,

still beautiful,

still scared,

still brave.

Mama,

Can you see me?

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