The Weight of Unspoken Expectations (A Lament in the Echoes of Assumptions)

I. The Prelude of Expectation

They hand you a script you never wrote,
yet demand a flawless performance.
Lips pursed, eyes narrowed—watching.
A metronome of sighs,
measuring your steps,
your words,
your silence.

Aren’t you supposed to…?
Shouldn’t you…?
Why didn’t you…?

You carry their questions like bricks,
stacked high on your back,
until your spine becomes
a question mark.


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II. The Ritual of Disappointment

A sigh escapes—a ghost of expectation unmet.
Eyebrows lift, the corners of a mouth curl downward,
a symphony of silent accusations.

The tragedy of your existence:
You are a gallery of unpainted portraits,
a museum of misplaced brushstrokes.

“Why don’t you try harder?”
Try what?
To be less of you?


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III. The Cult of Should

They say you should be
taller,
softer,
happier,
smoother,
warmer,
calmer,
smarter,
surer,
less sure,
less loud,
less quiet.

They tell you to smile,
but not too much—
it mustn’t seem forced.

They tell you to speak,
but not too loudly—
it mustn’t seem rude.

They tell you to love,
but not too freely—
it mustn’t seem desperate.

Every instruction contradicts the last,
like a map where all roads
lead to nowhere
but regret.


---

IV. The Mirage of Approval

You hold out your hands,
cupped,
as if to catch raindrops—
but it is only dust.

Approval dissolves like mist at dawn.
What was warm once,
what felt like an embrace,
turns to vapor in your grasp.

They praise you today,
adorn you with garlands of words.
Tomorrow,
they sharpen those same words
into knives.


---

V. The Mathematics of Assumption

A formula unsolvable:

If you say yes, you are weak.
If you say no, you are cruel.
If you stay, you are needy.
If you leave, you are selfish.

No equation equals peace.
No variable fits.


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VI. The Hollow Apology

You apologize for things you never did,
for feelings you never meant,
for the way the world interprets you
in shades you cannot control.

“I didn’t mean to…”
“I was just trying to…”
“I hope you understand…”

You shrink in the corners of conversations,
bending your spine into shapes
that make others comfortable,
until you are an origami version
of the person you were meant to be.


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VII. The Expectations You Never Signed Up For

You should have known,
they whisper.
Known what?
You were supposed to understand.
Understand what?

Their words are clouds—
shifting, breaking apart,
never tangible enough
to hold in your hands.

But they expect you to carry them anyway.


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VIII. The Guilt You Were Taught to Wear

They drape it over your shoulders,
a cloak woven from sighs
and disappointed glances.

You try to take it off,
but their eyes sew it tighter,
until guilt becomes your second skin,
until your own reflection
looks like failure.


---

IX. The Silence That Becomes a Rebellion

One day, you forget to check their faces.
Forget to measure their moods.
Forget to ask,
“Did I disappoint you today?”

The silence is foreign,
a new land where your footprints
belong only to you.

You exhale—
the weight of their ghosts
lifts from your shoulders.

No longer a sculpture
chiseled by foreign hands,
you become something wilder.
Something without edges.
Something without apology.

And for the first time,
you exist.

For you.


---

X. The Inventory of My Shoulders

I wake up with an ache I cannot name.
Not in my bones,
not in my skin—
deeper.
The weight of words never spoken,
the burden of their quiet,
pressing against my ribs.

I carry their sighs like heirlooms.
Their silent demands,
knotted between my vertebrae.
They do not ask,
but I am expected to give.

How much of myself must I break
to fit into their palms?


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XI. The House of Misunderstandings

I built a home out of caution.
Each brick, an explanation
I never owed.

I say one thing,
they hear another.
I say nothing,
and the silence offends them.

No matter how I rearrange my words,
the walls collapse.

I wonder—
if I set fire to this house,
will I finally be free?


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XII. The Grammar of My Existence

I was taught to punctuate my life
with their approval.
To place commas where they pause,
to end sentences where they decide.

But what if I don’t?
What if I let my words run wild,
without their corrections,
without their red ink?

Would I still be legible,
if not to them,
then to myself?


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XIII. The Unlearning

They hand me their rules,
etched into my skin like scripture.

But I am learning to erase.

I will untie the knots in my spine.
I will strip away their sighs,
one by one.

I will walk without measuring my steps,
speak without weighing my words,
exist without apology.

Let them watch.
Let them wonder.
Let them ask.

I am no longer here to answer.

#Expectations #Assumptions #SelfDiscovery #BreakingFree #EmotionalBurden #Poetry  #Poetry #InnerStrength #IdentityCrisis