My heart wakes before the morning does,
already heavy with the same old rain.
Somewhere inside my chest
there’s a small room
where crying has become routine.
Not loud, not dramatic,
just the slow leak
of someone who thinks
they are not enough.
Days pass through my hands untouched.
Not because I don’t want them.
But because my bones feel borrowed,
my energy misplaced somewhere
I can’t seem to find it again.
So I sit with unfinished hours,
watching life move
like a train I forgot how to board.
I want to laugh.
God, I want to laugh.
But I don’t want the kind
that wears a costume.
I don’t want the polite smile
people put on like borrowed shoes.
Because I know.
I hear it.
The way your laughter spills easier
when you’re with them.
How it rises higher, brighter.
Like sunlight through open windows.
And with me
it feels quieter,
like we’re both afraid
to move the air too much.
So I keep speaking my needs
almost every day,
placing them carefully between us
like cups on a long table.
Because when I don’t…
everything dries.
The silence becomes a desert,
wide and endless,
a Sahara made of unsaid things
and thirsty hopes.
And still…
beneath all this dust in my chest
there is one simple wish:
I just want to be human.
Not strong, not perfect,
not endlessly patient.
Just human…
someone who wakes up one morning
and feels the sun
instead of the weight.
Someone who laughs
without checking if it’s allowed.
Someone who lives
without asking permission
to feel alive.
Someone who finally believes
their heart
was enough
all along.