I am tired,
like the tide—dragged forward, pulled back,
never still long enough to feel whole.
The sheets, tangled like seaweed,
hold the stories of nights I’d rather forget,
their salt-stained whispers clinging to my skin.
I wish for something small,
something I could cup in my hands—
a moth, a moment,
a bit of light to carry me through.
I have worn too many costumes.
The brave daughter, the loyal friend,
the woman who keeps her head high,
even when the sky presses down.
But I am tired of rehearsals.
Tired of fitting myself into frames
that cut me at the edges.
It’s hard to keep smiling
when your reflection keeps slipping
out of its skin.
No one tells you how to explain
the kind of broken that doesn’t come
with instructions. No subtitles for the father
who walked away like a stranger,
or the mother who tried—
God, how she tried—
but her hands were already full
of her own crumbling foundation.
Some lessons are too heavy
for the tongue.
I am falling,
not like the movies—no slow-motion grace—
but fast and heavy,
the way rain hammers the earth,
each drop praying it won’t drown.
I need arms that know the language of holding—
friends, lovers, strangers
who can take this weight
and turn it into something softer.
A raft, a lullaby, a way through.
Let me rest. Let me lay it all down.
Let the fight leak out of me like ink,
disappearing into the sheets, the walls,
the dark. I don’t need much—
just a quiet room,
a heartbeat steady enough
to remind me I am not alone.
A chance to breathe
without my chest caving in.
But tonight, it’s just me—
the bed too big, the wish too small,
hovering like a bird
who doesn’t know how to land.
Il-Milied it-tajjeb lilkom kollha.