Woke up low, went down lower, same old weight across the shoulder. No good reason, no clean name, different night, the ache stays same. Too much gone, not enough left. Still breathing. Still a mess. I've been dragged through days that took more than I ever meant to give, watched the good go bad, watched the bad come back, and somehow I'm still here to live. I don't need a pretty ending, don't need anybody saying I've won— damn this weight, damn this hurt, I'm not done. Not done. Not yet. Fall down. Reset. No luck. No sign. Still mine. Still time. Every little loss gets louder when the room goes quiet at night, every old bruise finds a rhythm, every wrong starts feeling right. Let it burn, let it sting, let the whole damn ceiling ring. Low again. Here again. Woke up low, went down lower, same old weight across the shoulder. No good reason, no clean name, different night, the ache stays same. Too much gone, not enough left. Still breathing. Still a mess. Not fixed. Not free. But something in me won't leave. Not done—
