I wake up again.
Again, the weight of my body.
Again, the world insisting
when I had already given up.
This wasn’t the plan.
I closed my eyes looking for an ending,
not comfort,
not second chances,
just the rest that never comes.
And I failed.
I failed even at disappearing.
There are failures no one sees,
but they lodge in your chest
and never let you breathe the same.
They tell me to keep going,
to endure,
that one day I’ll understand.
But no one carries this exhaustion,
no one hears how the soul cracks
when it breaks in silence.
I didn’t want to die for noise,
or for drama.
I wanted the pain to stop.
I wanted to stop being.
I wanted time to forget me.
Now I’m here,
functioning without being present,
staring at the ceiling
like someone waiting for an answer
they no longer believe they deserve.
I don’t feel brave.
I don’t feel saved.
I feel trapped
inside a body that keeps going
even though everything inside
has already ended.
Because living like this
is a slow kind of loss.
It’s staying
when there is nothing left.
And still—
despite everything written here,
despite the darkness of these lines,
this is only the poem speaking,
not the truth outside the page.