Night doesn’t end.
It just loosens its grip enough
to let me believe I escaped.
I fall asleep like someone giving up—
knowing it won’t last,
knowing I’ll be dragged back out
in a few brutal hours.
I wake up soaked in cold sweat,
heart kicking my ribs like it’s trapped,
lungs forgetting how to work.
For a second—longer than a second—
I don’t know who I am
or why I’m still here.
The dark feels crowded.
I swear there are hands in the air,
weight on my chest,
voices pressing into my skull—
but when I reach out
there’s nothing.
Nothing is worse.
Every night is a warning.
Go to sleep,
because you have to.
Wake up,
because you don’t get a choice.
I already know what’s coming—
the crying that won’t sound like crying,
the screaming stuck behind my teeth,
the way my body shakes like it’s dying
even though it never finishes the job.
Time stretches cruel and thin.
Minutes bleed into hours.
Hours rot into morning.
The sun shows up like an insult,
acting like I survived something.
I don’t rest.
I wait.
I wait to wake up afraid,
to feel pain without a name,
to carry fear that has no source
and still weighs everything down.
Sleep isn’t peace.
It’s a promise
that I’ll wake up broken again.
And I do.
Every time.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 4:36 AM UTC
Night doesn’t end.
It just loosens its grip enough
to let me believe I escaped.
I fall asleep like someone giving up—
knowing it won’t last,
knowing I’ll be dragged back out
in a few brutal hours.
I wake up soaked in cold sweat,
heart kicking my ribs like it’s trapped,
lungs forgetting how to work.
For a second—longer than a second—
I don’t know who I am
or why I’m still here.
The dark feels crowded.
I swear there are hands in the air,
weight on my chest,
voices pressing into my skull—
but when I reach out
there’s nothing.
Nothing is worse.
Every night is a warning.
Go to sleep,
because you have to.
Wake up,
because you don’t get a choice.
I already know what’s coming—
the crying that won’t sound like crying,
the screaming stuck behind my teeth,
the way my body shakes like it’s dying
even though it never finishes the job.
Time stretches cruel and thin.
Minutes bleed into hours.
Hours rot into morning.
The sun shows up like an insult,
acting like I survived something.
I don’t rest.
I wait.
I wait to wake up afraid,
to feel pain without a name,
to carry fear that has no source
and still weighs everything down.
Sleep isn’t peace.
It’s a promise
that I’ll wake up broken again.
And I do.
Every time.
just a grain of salt
