This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

I can't close my eyes
tears gather.
I can't breathe
the air is stuck.
I can't gulp
my throat is tight.

I try to plant my dream,
but land is
barren

Still, I try.
Even my conscience
mocks me.

Like a broken machine
my mind tries to shut down,
but the cogs keep spinning
round and round.

Completely overheated,
the oils run dry—
you overthink and worry
‘till one day you die.

If I weren't me, who would I be?
If the world hadn't shut down, would I still
be lost?
Like blisters on my feet, I carry my doubts,
Mistook burnout for discipline, wore it as
a badge.

Baggage heavy with memories,
I drag it through the mud-
Versions of myself, deeply buried in a suitcase.

If I stop and leave it behind,
Will the old me burn in ashes?

I always cry too hard,
Strive too far,
Reach too high.

I always work too hard,
Love too much,
Cry myself to sleep.

I’ve always gone above and beyond,
That is the life of an overachiever,
After all,