Some days I wake up
and the first thing I feel is dread.
Not fear, not panic—
just this low,
gray hum
that says
“you again.”

I don’t scream.
I don’t cry.
I just sit there,
staring at the ceiling
like maybe it’ll collapse
and do the job for me.

I move like a ghost with a job.
Shower, maybe.
Eat, maybe.
Talk, fake it, smile, nod.
Everyone’s proud of how “strong” I am.
They don’t see the rot behind the eyes.

I laugh at the wrong times.
Not because I think it’s funny—
but because
what else is there?
What the fuck else do you do
when you’ve felt dead for years
but you’re still standing?

I don’t want advice.
Don’t want mantras,
meditations,
some clean little quote
about healing.

I want to feel something real
that doesn’t cut.
I want to sleep without begging my brain
to shut the fuck up.
I want silence
that isn’t full of knives.

But I don’t ask.
Because I know what they’ll say.
They’ll look at me
like I’m broken
but fixable.

I’m not.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
But I’m still here,
and that
has to mean something.
Even if I don’t know what.