some certain uncertainty

some night,

i feel like i’m held together

by the softest threads—

phone-light at 2 a.m.,

someone’s voice saying “you okay?”

when i’m absolutely not.

i have cried in bathrooms

with the faucet running

because that’s the only place

i ever learned to fall apart

quietly.

i want to be brave

in the cinematic way—

rain-soaked, desperate,

confessing something true.

instead, i love people

in lowercase,

in almosts,

in messages i never send.

my mother tells me

i was gentle as a child,

always handing her broken things

like she could fix them.

i wish i could hand her myself

just once more

and say:

it cracked again.

i’m trying.

please don’t be disappointed.

i’m made of glass

i didn’t ask for—

and i’m learning

how not to shatter

when someone knocks too hard.