STRONG.
By Sharlene Provilus
Why do I have to be so strong?
Why can’t I say that something is wrong?
I’ve been waiting, but my patience is fading.
I need to put down this heavy guard.
Life’s been rough —
it’s left me scarred.I’ve been running and running and running;
I went as far as my feet could take me.
Now the ice is breaking — I’m afraid I can’t hold on.God, I need you to be my strength.
I don’t want to be let down;
that’s why I’m afraid to let you in.You see, I’ve convinced the world
that I’m above crying,
but I haven’t convinced death
that I’m above dying.Yeah, there’s a smile on my face,
but my insides are crying.
I can’t do this myself; I’m so sick and tired of trying.
Why do I have to be so strong?
Everywhere I go I see his face;
I know I’ve got to move on.
The sins of my past have got me in their grasp.
My vision is shattered — I’m stepping on glass;
I can’t see through this fog.I want to be there for you, but I want to cry too.
So, is what I’m feeling really that wrong?Sometimes I want to be weak, yet I always have to be strong.
Sometimes I want to be soft, yet I always have to be hard.
Sometimes I want to be held, yet I always have to stand.
I want to be a woman and not feel like
I have to be a woman and a man, because I can’t
Why do I have to be so strong?
I told him; I put my hopes on the shelf.
I gave him of myself.
What more must I do to prove that “I love you”?
I’ve given him my best.Now, I’m standing here, broken—trying to give you what’s left;
I feel like everything is going wrong.I thought I was somewhat put together:
Had Booty shorts in the summer
In the winter low cut sweaters
In the spring my back’s out, and in the fall — not much more.
Because, if I caught a draft, I always had my boos to keep me warm.But this season in my life has got me real confused.
He’s not treating me right, and yet I’m so afraid to say that I’m being abused.
I’m walking around with deep cuts and open wounds.
Truth be told, I’ve got a problem with rejection.
I’ve learned that with each new name and number comes a brand-new lesson.
I can tell you, most of my exes,
ended with a headache/heartache.
But at least they started off as a blessing.Those temps did fill voids in my life.
They brought shiny toys in my life.
Sometimes I reminisce about those boys in my life.They kept me distracted,
That’s why I’m still asking:
Why do I have to be so strong?Why must I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders?
Mother to my mate, a sister to my son, equal to my daughter:
The world keeps telling me my priorities are out of order.I say, at least I’m there — it’s more than what my mother was to me.
I should have known my life would be worth nothing more
than a couple suitcases of baggage,
considering what hers used to be.I’m so tired of living this life…and I feel myself dying a death
I live in this life, but I feel myself dying a death
over and over and over again.I have cried until it hurt; I have been on my knees.
I have lost everything, including my dignity.I have in the midst of a crowd —
loud people,
loud music,
hard dancing,
drinks passing—still felt alone.At my house, at his house, at “our” house, I have yet to have a home.
Why, God?
Tell me why I have to be so strong?Why can’t you take away all of this hurt, and this pain, and this shame?
I feel like I’ll never be good enough.
I know that I’ve been living in sin.But I heard this preacher talk about a man named Jesus.
He said You were the only God who could make people whole again.I just want to be free
I want to be loved
I want to have freedom and joy.
I could go on and on and on,
but if you granted no other request,
at least send someone in my life to say:
Baby girl — you don’t have to be so strong.
You don’t have to be so strong.
ABOUT
THESE
LINES
I wrote this poem years ago, and every time I read it, I’m reminded that the ache hasn’t changed. Trauma taught me a version of survival that looks like armor: no tears, no rest, no asking for help. For a long time, that armor felt like safety. It felt like love.
But the truth is different. Strength without rest becomes brittle. Being “the strong one” at every table cost me a home inside myself. It cost me the freedom to be soft, to be held, to admit I’m tired. This poem emerged from that place.
People from every walk of life have told me they see themselves in it. That is the miracle of speaking truth into a room. Your story becomes a place where other people find permission to feel.
YOUR
TURN
If this piece lands with you, tell me: when did you stop pretending you were okay? Drop a line in the comments. I read everyone.
