Wake.
Work.
Sleep.
Repeat.
No time to breathe,
no space to feel.
Just the weight of it all—
tight around my chest,
a silent chokehold.
I used to find joy
in stories, in words,
in the way the wind kissed my skin.
Now, even the wind feels heavy,
another thing I have to bear.
They say, be grateful.
For the hours that steal my light.
For the silence where my breakdowns hide.
For the exhaustion that keeps me too tired
to dream of something more.
But I am unraveling,
stitched together by forced smiles,
by the fear of stopping,
by the fear of what happens
if I let go.
This is not the life I imagined.
But maybe—just maybe—
one day,
I will be free.