I think therefore I’m tired all the time…

Who are you?
I shout to her from distance.
only to hear my echoes back.
maybe you're nonexistent.
Or is it me who can't see?
The noise never fades.
And I cannot set myself free.

I march through the marsh.
with the mire clinging between my feet.
The voice calls like a ripple.
Vibrating through the trees.
and the more I try to silence it.
The louder it screams at me.

I see her again - far away.
"Who are you?"
I shout from my place.
she responds back "Who are you?" just to fade again

the noise won't seem to stop.
and my feet ache from running.
I'll get myself together to turn off the yelling.
but we just meet again.
is my faith sealed around this i mumble to myself.

Who are you?
she shouts from a distance.
"Who are you" i question her back.

I don't like this place nor do i understand her.
should I just stand here and the noise will make me move again?
or should I move fearing the dark?

I sit with myself mumbling these thoughts making an annoying noise.
Then i see her one more time running through the trees.
Coming to me.
with a face annoyed and not pleased.
she shouts with her voice diseased.
"Who are you?"
do i even know the answer to the question?
perhaps, do I know me?
I just hate her, and don't wanna hear her.
she mumbles annoying noise while thinking to herself.
she's mad and doesn't wanna forgive herself.
she is just hearing her echoes!
do i give up on the noise?

Who are you?
I scream through the thick air with doubt.
“Who are you?” she question back,
But this time, the response shakes in my mouth.
She’s no stranger i know her face,
She’s the noise I’ve been trying to chase.
I run in disbelief
yet she stays in place
I remember, she’s me.
The noise never leaves, but neither will she.

My only crime was to have been born a woman.
a crime with no trial, no verdict, just sentence.
The world does not break us all at once;
it whittles, peels, pares us down
until we fit the hollow it has carved.

They say we are too much.
Too loud, too soft, too sharp, too small.
A contradiction they built,
then condemned for its shape.

We fold ourselves into corners,
tuck our rage beneath our tongues,
wrap our worth in apologies
and call it survival.
That is not living— it is simply existing.

But we are not ghosts.
Not echoes of something lesser.
We are steel spun fine,
fire woven into silk—
soft does not mean breakable.

We are here.
We have always been here.

And we are not leaving quietly.

contemplating,
elevating,
doubt.
stay still
or risk to not get out

quick sand
an even quicker life
and bye

you never leave,
the way you came
no glory or miracle at bay
just flesh and bones
preparing to decay

and so it goes,
now still, can stay