I'm tired.
Not just sleepy.
Not just worn.
I mean soul-tired.
I mean breathing-feels-like-a-task tired.
I mean I wake up choking on nothing
but the weight of still being here.
Like I slept underwater
and the air hasn’t forgiven me yet.

I'm tired.
Of scrolling just to drown out the silence
because silence screams louder than sound.
Of staring at nothing
because moving means choosing
and I’m so tired of choosing
when every choice feels like a trap
in a maze I never asked to be in.

I'm tired.
Of trying to begin
when the beginning is a thousand miles away
and the end is breathing down my neck.
I’m stuck in this middle,
this endless, merciless middle
where everything is urgent
and nothing feels real.

I'm tired.
Of crying like it’s a ritual,
like maybe if I break hard enough
something will fix itself.
Maybe a task will complete.
Maybe a word will write.
Maybe I’ll feel like I earned the right
to exist today.

I'm tired.
Of surviving like it’s a performance.
Of making it through
and still feeling like I failed.
Like I borrowed this day
and forgot to pay it back
with usefulness.

I'm tired.
Of wanting to scream
but swallowing it whole.
Of wanting to be held
but not so tightly I can’t disappear.
Of wanting to be seen
but not stared at.
Of wanting to matter
but not be measured.

I'm tired.
In a way that sleep can’t touch.
In a way that makes hope feel like a scam
and joy like a prize I’ll never win.
In a way that makes even dreaming
feel like work.

I'm tired.
And still...
here I am.
Spilling myself onto this screen
because maybe if the pain has rhythm
it’ll hurt a little less.
Because maybe if I say it loud enough
someone, somewhere,
will finally understand
what I mean
when I say...

"I'm tired."