My birthday comes like a mirrored door,
Reflecting years I cannot ignore.
Each candle lit feels less like cheer,
More like a count of fading years.
It marks the miles I did not choose,
The quiet wins I seem to lose.
Another year, and still alone,
With empty rooms and a silent phone.
It stirs the ghosts I keep inside,
The regrets I’ve never set aside.
Old shadows rise with every date,
And speak in voices I still hate.
So I walk through this harshest day,
While brighter things feel far away.
Yet even here, in grief and rain,
I breathe, and then I breathe again.