We play a role, we wear the face,
Of kindness shaped by self-erase.
We smile through talk we’d never choose,
And call it love, though both sides lose.

 

We’d never want a soul to stay
With us from guilt, not love’s own sway.
But when we feel that we’re “needed” still,
We bear the weight against our will.

 

We call it care, but it's self-blame,
This double-standard martyr game.
We shrink ourselves to seem sincere,
Then cry when no one sees us clear.

 

We preach that sacrifice is pure,
But only if it stays obscure.
The moment you expect return,
The badge of virtue starts to burn.

 

A “good” disguise, a quiet cage,
Built from the fear of others’ rage.
Not selfish—no—we just pretend,
While begging blame not to descend.

 

We fake a “yes,” suppress the “no,”
And hope they’ll never need to know.
But if they mirrored back that act,
We’d feel betrayed by what they lacked.

 

We call it care, but it's self-blame,
This double-standard martyr game.
We shrink ourselves to seem sincere,
Then cry when no one sees us clear.

 

We’d never ask what we endure,
Yet still we serve, unsure, demure.
And call it strong to disappear—
Our loyal mask, forever near.