Shall I tell you how tired I am?
Not just in my bones
but in the places where memories sting,
where echoes of "You're not enough"
still roam like ghosts.
I am tired
of pretending the walls don’t whisper
every night,
of folding my voice into corners
so I don't disturb the peace
that never included me.
I’m tired
of being the afterthought in a house
that should have been shelter,
of smiling on cue
because that’s what I was trained to do.
I miss my mother
in ways language cannot hold,
not just her face,
but the warmth that died
the day they split us like pages
from the same story,
scattered.
I walk through life like a shadow
of the girl I could’ve been—
if love had stayed,
if hands had held
instead of hurt.
Shall I tell you how tired I am
of crying in languages
no one bothers to translate?
Of holding my breath in crowded rooms
because even there,
I feel alone?
Tired of praying
not just for strength—
but for release,
for some kind of ending
that doesn’t sound like giving up
but feels like rest.
And yet I rise
each day,
not out of hope
but habit.
Not to live—
just to last.
Shall I tell you how tired I am?
Or will you just nod,
then scroll past the wreckage
I’ve disguised as a poem?
Year:
2025
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It’s not just my body that’s
It’s not just my body that’s tired. It’s the parts of me that keep pretending to be okay.
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