I have held the weight of everything
and no one asked me if I could.
They just built on top of me
and called it ground.
I crack slowly.
That's the nature of it.
Not all at once —
just seasons,
and pressure,
and the particular loneliness
of being stood on
by people
who never look down.
I don't collapse.
That's the cruelest part.
I hold.
I always hold.
Even broken
I hold.
And the break spreads quietly
through the middle of me
while the city above
argues about the weather
and makes dinner
and sleeps.
I am still here.
I am still bearing it.
And if I scream
it is in a language
made of fractures —
and no one
has ever learned
to read it.