It’s 5 a.m.,
still awake like a noctivagant
who wanders the house,
counting footsteps between rooms,
fear trailing behind like a thin shadow—
a pall stretched across the day before it begins.
“Did you sleep today?” the question rises,
soft, rehearsed, almost kind.
“Yes, I did,” I answer without hesitation,
a lie delivered cleanly,
knowing well
sleep was never made for me,
or perhaps I was never shaped to hold it.
The ceiling knows my stare too well.
The clock blinks accusations.
Hours pass without permission,
each minute a quiet theft.
Scrolling and binging,
thumb numb, mind louder than ever,
I trade rest for noise,
light for distraction.
It doesn’t adore my studies—
doesn’t even pretend to—
yet the pressure persists,
a weight that doesn’t sleep
even when I beg it to.
Thoughts ruminate,
chewing the same failures raw,
replaying futures I haven’t lived
and pasts that refuse burial.
I am hypervigilant,
listening for disasters
that haven’t learned my name yet.
Morning comes like an obligation,
not a relief.
The world wakes refreshed;
I arrive unfinished,
stitched together by caffeine and resolve,
dragging night behind my eyes.
If sleep is a refuge,
then I am stranded at its border—
liminal, unrested,
learning how to function
while profoundly awake.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC
If perfection was a room,
the walls would be white and soundless.
From the beginning,
I ran toward it—
not because I wanted to,
but because I was told to.
Comparison cracked me open from the inside,
yet courage still kept me running.
Still, it never led me to perfection.
My hair, my face, my grades— never enough.
Every measure,
every standard,
demanded more.
Always more.
No one liked the original me.
Everyone wanted sunshine in winter,
a flawless day,
a perfect mask.
And when I lost a single mark,
I was the one who whispered,
“Why did you lose at all?”
because I was already caught,
already chasing,
already carrying
the weight of perfection.
now it made me feel—
If perfection was a room,
the walls would be bright and boundless.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 6:09 PM UTC
Is this normal?
I get scared to think they’ll judge me—
but stupid me,
even the hearts I trusted do.
so how can I expect a stranger
to be kind
when home feels like trial
and every word is a sentence?
even my friend—
the one I laughed with under cheap lights—
gets jealous
when my joy flickers a little too bright.
how can I expect a best friend
when “best”
feels like a word made for someone else?
I tell myself
just be normal.
just be soft.
just be small enough to not scare them.
but sometimes—
the silence in me
grows too loud
and spills from my mouth
before I remember
I’m not supposed to talk
to myself
out loud.
and they look at me~
the ones who should've known me best
like I’ve turned to glass and cracked
and they whisper ******
like it’s a diagnosis,
not a wound.
is that normal?
or just
my version of surviving?
my version
of not letting the weight
swallow me whole?
so at the end,
is this normal?
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 3:51 PM UTC
When they ask me what I'm most scared of,
an enigmatic question for a whimsical creature like me-
who yearns a verdant life -
still sobbing and sitting figuring out the "bewildered math",
worried about the veiled tomorrow...
proceeds to say "dark", where I find peace in.
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC