sometimes,  
    i       un-know  
        the shape  
         of self—  
               dissolve before  
                       remembering.

   i sit  
     in the ache  
     of heat,

and nothing
else.

       minutes  
                   dissolve  
   into  
          maybe hours  
or never.

drip,
  drip,
    drip,
      drip.

          (i­ can’t tell  
     if it’s dripping  
           or if i’m unraveling  
                 in rhythm.)

             thoughts            blur,  
      slide,­  
              melt—  
                        into tile grout.

i breathe —
maybe i don’t.
maybe the air is too soft to hold.

    maybe i’ve been  
                      gone  
                          thi­s whole time:

     what was i  
              thinking?
  (was i thinking?)

            just heat,         and water,  
and the pressure of something  
                    heavier  
                       ­ than skin—  
    but not quite grief,

                      not quite anything.

    and still i sit.

       and still,  
                       the faucet sings,  
             and still,  
                    no one knows  
      how quiet  
                       i’ve become.

I hate this hunger, gnawing loud,
a whisper turned into a crowd.
I write for peace, for truth, for light—
yet crave the echo in the night.

A thousand eyes, a million hearts,
I want the world to know my art.
Though kindness rains and love is near,
still something selfish stirs in fear.

Why isn’t enough just enough?
Why does praise feel like fragile fluff?
Why do I ache for louder cheers,
when gentle voices ring so clear?

I count the stars, but chase the sun—
forgetting how the moon has won
my poems over with her grace,
while I still seek a grander place.

I loathe this thirst I cannot quench,
this greedy pull, this inner wrench.
Yet deep inside, I see the root—
a child who just wants to feel absolute.

But let me learn to love this pace,
to write for stillness, not the race.
To hold each word, each soul, each view,
and know—enough is something true.

75. Just a thought. A whisper. A what-if.
74. I test the weight of silence, hold it in my hands.
73. Everyone talks. No one listens.
72. I count cracks in the ceiling, pretend they are escape routes.
71. My name sounds foreign when they say it.

70. I make a list of things I’ll miss. It’s short.
69. I start another list—things I won’t. It’s endless.
68. Someone asks if I’m okay. I forget how to answer.
67. I laugh too hard. It feels like breaking.
66. I cry in the shower. The water drowns the sound.

65. Sleep is a stranger.
64. I lose my appetite. Even hunger forgets me.
63. The mirror doesn’t recognize me anymore.
62. The days blur, smear together like wet ink.
61. I hear my own voice and wonder if it’s mine.

60. I rip old photos apart, scatter them like dead leaves.
59. My heartbeat is a drum in an empty hall.
58. I start talking to shadows. They answer back.
57. I see movement in the corners of my eyes.
56. The walls breathe when I’m not looking.

55. My skin feels too tight.
54. My thoughts are too loud.
53. I try to scream but forget how.
52. I write a note, then another, then another.
51. I set them on fire. The flames flicker like old memories.

50. Halfway there. A relief. A curse.
49. My hands shake. I clench them into silence.
48. I step outside. The world moves without me.
47. The stars blink. I wonder if they’re watching.
46. I lose another hour to the void.

45. My name no longer belongs to me.
44. My body feels borrowed.
43. I stop answering messages.
42. They stop sending them.
41. I bite my tongue to taste something real.

40. I forget what my voice sounds like.
39. Music doesn’t move me anymore.
38. The wind howls. I howl back.
37. I lose track of days.
36. The countdown is all that’s left.

35. I lock the door.
34. I lose the key.
33. I stop checking the time.
32. Time stops checking on me.
31. The air is thick. I choke on nothing.

30. They say people can tell. No one does.
29. My chest feels empty, like I misplaced something vital.
28. I press my ear to the ground, listen for a heartbeat.
27. Nothing.
26. Nothing.

25. The sky is too bright. It hurts my eyes.
24. The moon is too full. It mocks me.
23. I turn off my phone.
22. No one notices.
21. I am a ghost before I am even gone.

20. I stop pretending.
19. I stop hoping.
18. I stop waiting for someone to save me.
17. I stop wanting to be saved.
16. I stop.

15. The countdown is a prayer.
14. The countdown is a promise.
13. The countdown is all I have.
12. The weight of it is crushing.
11. I welcome it.

10. I can’t remember why I started.
9. I can’t remember who I was before.
8. The world is underwater. I am drowning.
7. I let the tide take me.
6. I let go.

5. The choice is already made.
4. I exhale.
3. I close my eyes.
2. The world fades.
1.