There Is No Cure
I am tired
in a way that no sleep reaches.
Not the kind of tired
that fades with tea or sun or silence—
but the kind that settles in the bones
like a second skeleton.
I carry something unnamed.
Not sadness,
not rage—
just a hollow ache that breathes.
I am tired,
and there is no cure for my illness.
It is not in pills or prayers,
not in speaking or forgetting.
It is the ache
of being seen too late,
of being known only in fragments,
of walking through a world
that never made room
for the shape of me.
They call it survival.
I call it drowning,
with my head above water
and no one noticing.
One day,
I will stop trying to surface.
But not today.
Today, I am still here,
breathing in the silence,
waiting for something
to shift.