The house groans with my failures.
Every project collapses
like wet paper left in the rain.

People step close,
thinking they can hold me up,
but I’m a broken frame,
sharp edges,
too heavy to carry.

So I push them away.
Better they bruise at a distance
than bleed at my side.

My body won’t bargain with me either.
It runs on fumes,
bones creak like old stairs,
lungs dragging air like stones.

And still
I wake,
I move,
I make do,
inside this crooked life
that doesn’t quite fit.