Sometimes I grow tired
not only of the world
but of the wars
that live quietly within me.
Tired in my body,
where every breath can feel heavy,
tired in my mind,
where thoughts gather like storm clouds
and never seem to leave.
I have carried myself
through days that asked too much,
through nights that would not soften,
through the silent fight
of simply staying whole.
And still—
even here, even now—
there is a small, stubborn flame
refusing to go out.
It flickers in the dark.
It bends.
It trembles.
But it remains.
So if I am tired,
let it be known:
I am not gone.
I am only weary
from being brave so long.
And somewhere beneath this weight,
I am still here,
still breathing,
still becoming
something gentle again.