I am The Last Line of Defense

There is a kind of man whose name is not spoken, only summoned.When joy fails.

In the aftermath.

In the sweep.

I am that man. The last line of defense.

At home, in the office, in the hour of collapse — I am the one they call.It is predetermined, written in the silence that follows panic.

I am the engineer of calm. 

The architect of solutions.I listen with precision. 

I speak with empathy.My answers are thoughtful, my timing immaculate.Even my sighs are calibrated not to worry anyone.

They come to me because I deliver,always.I deliver results, relief.

But when the house is quiet and the inbox finally rests, I sit in the echo of my usefulness and wonder:Who solves me?

On whose shoulder can I lean without feeling like a collapse?To whom do I speak without curating the words?

There is no room for my doubt. 

No space for my tiredness.The world has already claimed my strength as its own.If I fall apart, others will too, and they know it.So I don’t.

I have taught them to rely on me. 

And in doing so, I have taught myselfthat my needs are a threat to their peace.This is the agreement.Unspoken. Non-negotiable.

I am not allowed to be weak.Even when I feel it in my bones.Even when I’m standing on the edge of silence, hoping someone hears me.

My tragedy is simple:I am understood only through my function.Not as a person.But as a fortress.

A fortress doesn’t cry.A fortress doesn’t bend.It holds.

Alone.

Under all circumstances.

I am condemned to always be strong.