No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Or so I tell myself.
Again.
I can almost hear the laughter of my own conscience,
because we've played this game before.
Draw the line.
Build the walls.
Stop caring so damn much.
Yet every time someone needs a shoulder,
there I am.
Every time someone needs an ear,
I listen—
even if mine don't work as well as theirs.
I never interrupt.
I never judge.
I offer pieces of my heart
like they're endless,
as though giving them away
won't eventually leave me hollow.
But the day I need someone...
Silence.
An empty room.
Unread messages.
Excuses.
Funny how quickly the world forgets
the man who was always there.
Instead,
the voices arrive.
"He's weak."
"He's pathetic."
"He's deaf."
"He's thick."
Different mouths.
Same poison.
They never quite say,
"No one would miss you."
They don't have to.
Sometimes the silence says it louder.
So tell me...
Why?
Why, after everything I've seen,
everything I've survived,
everything that's chipped away at me,
do I still choose kindness?
Why is my first instinct
to understand,
to forgive,
to care,
when every lesson life has handed me
tells me not to?
People tell me,
"You're too nice."
Then disappear.
If I dare stand a little taller,
speak a little firmer,
draw a boundary instead of apologising for existing...
"That's not you."
"I don't like that version of you."
Yet they'll happily give their heart
to someone who tears it apart
with insults,
swearing,
and broken promises.
So what am I meant to be?
Too nice?
Too harsh?
Too quiet?
Too much?
I don't know anymore.
I keep saying,
"No more Mr. Nice Guy."
But that man refuses to die.
He's stitched into my bones,
woven through my conscience,
buried somewhere beneath the scars.
And perhaps that's what hurts the most.
I want to scream.
I want to rage.
I want to break something,
anything,
just so the noise inside me
finally has somewhere to go.
Instead...
I become a cauldron.
Always on the fire.
Always simmering.
The surface trembles,
bubbles rise,
steam escapes in quiet sighs.
Everyone notices
the warmth.
No one notices
how close the iron is
to cracking.
Or so I tell myself.
Again.
I can almost hear the laughter of my own conscience,
because we've played this game before.
Draw the line.
Build the walls.
Stop caring so damn much.
Yet every time someone needs a shoulder,
there I am.
Every time someone needs an ear,
I listen—
even if mine don't work as well as theirs.
I never interrupt.
I never judge.
I offer pieces of my heart
like they're endless,
as though giving them away
won't eventually leave me hollow.
But the day I need someone...
Silence.
An empty room.
Unread messages.
Excuses.
Funny how quickly the world forgets
the man who was always there.
Instead,
the voices arrive.
"He's weak."
"He's pathetic."
"He's deaf."
"He's thick."
Different mouths.
Same poison.
They never quite say,
"No one would miss you."
They don't have to.
Sometimes the silence says it louder.
So tell me...
Why?
Why, after everything I've seen,
everything I've survived,
everything that's chipped away at me,
do I still choose kindness?
Why is my first instinct
to understand,
to forgive,
to care,
when every lesson life has handed me
tells me not to?
People tell me,
"You're too nice."
Then disappear.
If I dare stand a little taller,
speak a little firmer,
draw a boundary instead of apologising for existing...
"That's not you."
"I don't like that version of you."
Yet they'll happily give their heart
to someone who tears it apart
with insults,
swearing,
and broken promises.
So what am I meant to be?
Too nice?
Too harsh?
Too quiet?
Too much?
I don't know anymore.
I keep saying,
"No more Mr. Nice Guy."
But that man refuses to die.
He's stitched into my bones,
woven through my conscience,
buried somewhere beneath the scars.
And perhaps that's what hurts the most.
I want to scream.
I want to rage.
I want to break something,
anything,
just so the noise inside me
finally has somewhere to go.
Instead...
I become a cauldron.
Always on the fire.
Always simmering.
The surface trembles,
bubbles rise,
steam escapes in quiet sighs.
Everyone notices
the warmth.
No one notices
how close the iron is
to cracking.
