I don’t know—
I just…
I feel so tired.
Not the kind that sleep fixes,
not the kind you can stretch out with a yawn
and shake off with coffee and routine.
It’s the kind that seeps,
the kind that erodes,
the kind that turns flesh into shell.

Like I’m living in my own skin
on a lease that’s almost up.

I don’t know who I am anymore.
Not really.
I wear this face like a borrowed mask
and the smile’s begun to crack around the eyes.
People say, “You seem better,”
but I don’t feel like I’m even here.

I’ve never been so mentally and physically gutted—
like someone left the lights on in a house with no one home.
Like maybe there’s a reason,
maybe something’s wrong somewhere inside:
hormones, chemicals, traumas I won’t name…
but I’m too tired to even ask the questions.
Too tired to fight for answers
when my fists are already dragging on the floor.

All I want is sleep.
Not rest.
Not dreams.
Just to pause.
To fold myself into the hours and vanish into blankets
until the world stops spinning with my name in its mouth.

Because this—
this life I’m in?
It doesn’t feel like mine.
I’m just running it on autopilot,
ghost-driving a vehicle I can’t afford to crash,
but secretly wish I would.

How do you reconcile that?
The pointlessness.
The hollow.
The fake busywork of being alive
just enough to not cause concern.

And no, I’m not going to do anything dramatic,
I’m not brave enough for that.
But if I’m honest?
I think about it.
A lot.

Not because I want to die.
But because I just don’t want to do this anymore.
This—
constant pressure to smile, to rise,
to be “fine” in a world that’s on fire
and still asks if I’ve done my washing.

Maybe I’m broken.
Maybe I’m lazy.
Maybe I’m not supposed to say any of this out loud.
But I don’t care.
Because if I scream in metaphors,
maybe someone will hear me.

I keep fucking things up.
I try to hold it together,
but my hands are full of apologies and empty cups.
And maybe no one really knows me.
Not because I hide—
but because I’ve lost the map to myself.

I’m a puzzle with half the pieces thrown in someone else’s box.

I love.
I try.
I appear happy.

But inside?

It’s just echoes
and this bone-deep, soul-rotting fatigue
that no nap
and no amount of pretending
can cure.

So if I vanish someday,
don’t worry.
I probably just fell asleep
in a world
that never felt like mine to begin with.