The Cavalry Isn’t Coming

by Saj

I waited for the cavalry once,

 not the kind with white horses and polished steel,

 but the quieter kind.

 Hands that would catch me before I fell.

 A voice saying, “I’ve got you. Rest.”

 Someone who’d finally step forward and say, “Enough. I’ll carry this part.”

But the horizon stayed empty.

 And the walls kept leaning in.

 And the smallness of every room I’ve hidden in

 kept echoing back my own breath.

So I learned.

 I learned that I am my own cavalry.

 That the exhausted, half‑cracked, running‑on‑fumes version of me

 is all that’s ever arrived.

 No fanfare. No shining armor.

 Just me,

 the bruised hands, the shaking spine, the tired lungs.

 Me, charging into my own fires

 because no one else ever does.

There’s nothing romantic about being your own rescue.

 It’s messy. Loud. Unfair.

 It’s holding your life together with chipped nails and stubborn teeth.

 It’s hating the strength that everyone else depends on.

 It’s begging the universe for a reprieve,

 and getting only silence in return.

But still,

 when the black hole leans close,

 when the rope frays to threads,

 when everyone wants something,

 when even the cat won’t stop pawing,

 I stand. Not because I want to,

 But because I always have.

I am tired of being the cavalry.

 I want someone else to ride in,

 just once.

 But until then,

 it will be me.

I am the cavalry.

 Broken. Fierce. Spiteful.

 But here.