Some nights feel heavy as a locked-up room,
air thick with shadows I can barely breathe through.
I lie awake listening to my own heartbeat
and wonder why it keeps choosing to stay.
It isn’t death I’m reaching for—
not really—
it’s the quiet behind the noise,
the pause in the ache,
the place where the world stops demanding
and I no longer have to pretend I’m fine.
I whisper wishes into the dark
not because I want to disappear,
but because I’m tired of carrying storms
in a heart that just wants to rest.
If the universe would hand me peace,
I’d take it in trembling palms—
not an ending,
just a moment where the pain loosens its grip
and lets me breathe like a person
who still belongs here.
Until then,
I hold on to the thin thread of tomorrow,
hoping it’s enough,
hoping I’m enough,
even on nights when I can’t feel it.
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