Every Woman I Know Is Tired
The tiredness women carry in the body — in the cold coffee, the unsat-down hours, the practiced quiet.
Every woman I know is tired.
But you already knew that.
I don’t need to explain what kind.
You feel it, too.
It’s the kind that lives behind your ribs.
The kind that sits in your mouth
when someone talks over you again.
The kind that makes you forget
why you walked into the room,
but remember what everyone else needs.
It’s the kind that doesn’t scream.
It lingers.
In the ache behind your knees,
in the cold coffee on the counter,
in the way no one notices
that you haven’t sat down yet.
We don’t talk about it much—
not in full.
We make jokes.
Say “same.”
Send each other memes
about needing a break
we know we won’t get.
But I see it in you.
In the way your hands move—
measured, practiced.
In the way you make room
for everyone
and still feel in the way.
You hold so much
without asking to be held.
Not because you don’t need it—
but because you’ve learned
it’s easier to need less
than to have to ask twice.