Chapter Text
I am tired in a way
sleep does not fix.
Tired in the bones,
in the space behind my eyes,
in the hours that blur together
until day feels like something
I only visit.
My body forgets how to rest.
It gives me minutes of dreaming
like crumbs,
then asks me to stand upright
and learn and smile
as if that were enough.
I wear proof on my wrist,
numbers that repeat themselves
night after night,
quiet evidence that says
this is real,
even when the room won’t listen.
At school, my head falls forward
without asking permission.
Plastic chairs bite into my legs.
Pins and needles wake me
before kindness ever does.
I move class to class
half-awake,
half-apologizing
for something I didn’t choose.
They tell me to apply myself.
As if effort could replace rest.
As if wanting were the same as having.
As if exhaustion were a moral flaw
instead of a warning.
My lungs argue with the air.
My stomach hurts in ways
medicine softens but does not erase.
Some treatments help,
some hurt,
and all of them remind me
that my body is working overtime
just to exist.
I am scared, too—
of hallways,
of faces I didn’t ask to see again,
of carrying fear
into places that should feel safe.
I hold myself together
with deadlines and expectations
stacked higher than I can reach.
Perfect grades loom like a promise
I was never given the tools to keep.
There is one person
who sees me sag and says,
“You’re not okay,”
and stays anyway.
That matters more
than anyone knows.
I am not lazy.
I am not broken.
I am not failing on purpose.
I am a kid whose body is struggling
and whose voice keeps asking
to be heard.
I don’t need to be stronger.
I need help.
I need rest.
I need an adult
to believe that this—
this—
is already more than enough to carry.