I know you’re tired of me, because I’m tired of myself. And it’s not just the weight of my body, but the relentless echo of my thoughts, circling like vultures over the dead parts of me I can’t seem to resurrect. Each morning feels like I’m peeling myself out of bed, shedding skin that’s steeped in shame. I watch you sip your drink, knowing it’s easier than saying my name. You used to look at me like I was the sunset, worth staying a little longer for. Now your eyes drift: to the clock, to the glow of your phone, to anywhere but here. And I can’t bring myself to blame you. I built a mausoleum out of what we had, hoping you’d still find warmth in a tomb. My chest wasn’t always this hollow, but over time it unraveled, thread by thread, pulled by hands that mimicked mine. Now even your kindness makes me flinch, and the silence between us feels like confirmation of everything I fear. Somehow, I’m always too much and never enough all at once. I understand if your soul is weary, calloused by the effort it takes just to keep trying. I’ve carried the ache of my own presence for so long that sometimes, even I wish I could leave.
