Sometimes I feel like I live too far away from the world. As if I were floating somewhere in the universe, Looking down at how small life seems, how small we are, Desperately insisting on existing as if tomorrow were a promise, And not simply another day to survive. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to scream. I don’t want to disappear. And yet, there are nights when I wish I didn’t have to be here. Frustrated with writing, because even when I try, To turn my pain into words, a whisper asks me why. A whisper says I cannot even do this right... Maybe that’s why I write. Why does loving myself feel like learning a foreign tongue? A language no one ever taught me when I was young. And why does hating myself feel like speaking my native tongue? Four walls, a bed, a heart hiding from the weight of it all, Waiting for someone to tell me I don’t have to stand so tall. (Yo, listen) Why me? Why is it so difficult to find that little place inside where I can rest? Why can I find relief for everyone else, But leave my own chest compressed? Why is it so hard to believe that I could be enough, too? I know I should be, I know, But the world is determined to make it untrue. Every step feels like a failure, Every attempt a piece of evidence, Even the beautiful days turn into nights of drinking and silence. What good is the money? What good is the pride? If I cannot feel happy inside my own hide? Proving to everyone that I can do this alone, When secretly I’m waiting for a savior unknown. Why does loving myself feel like learning a foreign tongue? A language no one ever taught me when I was young. And why does hating myself feel like speaking my native tongue? Four walls, a bed, a heart hiding from the weight of it all, Waiting for someone to tell me I don’t have to stand so tall. I have to keep smiling, because everyone knows the happy person I am! I have to laugh, I have to move forward, running the marathon, building the dam! But the world doesn’t allow me to admit that I am tired, Killing a piece of myself every day just to keep the circuit wired. Resentment! Anger! Questions that refuse to disappear! Why can’t I move forward? Why is the static so clear? Sometimes I wish I were dead, or maybe I’m already dead inside, Living in a prison I once built, To keep the ones I love safe and wide! Maybe someday I will stop asking why I am not enough. Maybe someday my own voice will speak through the rough. Maybe someday, among all the things I still don’t know how to do... I will learn one. How to stay. (How to stay...) Not to prove anything. Not to be strong. But because my life still has a place where I belong. And maybe, someday, I can become that place for myself.
