The Weight of Caring

For years I thought I didn’t care.
I told myself the numbness was proof.
If I could sit in silence and feel nothing,
then maybe the world had taken nothing from me.

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But numbness was a mask.
A shield I wore to keep from drowning in the truth.
The truth was that I cared more than I ever admitted.
I cared so much it tore me apart.
So much I had to bury it under stone just to keep walking.

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When I stopped numbing, when I sat and felt,
the flood returned.
Every ache, every loss, every silent vow.
The caring had never left me.
It was waiting.

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And I saw: caring is not weakness.
It is weight.
A weight that bends the spine until you train the body to hold it.
A weight that sharpens the beast,
and gives direction to the fire.

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This is why my rituals matter.
Why I strike the bag, stretch the flesh, sit in the silence.
Each practice is a re-forging of the vessel,
so I can carry the care without breaking.

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And when she moans for me,
when she breathes my presence into her body,
I know it was not in vain.
My caring was not wasted.
It was the power all along.