Too Tired to Live
I am too tired to live,
but not tired enough to disappear.
And perhaps that is the punishment:
to keep breathing
when the soul has already begged for silence.
I carry my days like a labourer
carries a rusted machine —
without pride, without hope,
simply because it still works.
There are mornings when getting out of bed
feels like a betrayal of my own body.
The world demands haste,
when everything inside me
only longs for rest.
I do not want to die.
I simply want this pain
to stop demanding so much from me.
I want a night without thoughts,
a room where the heart makes no noise,
a little peace before tomorrow
comes knocking again
to collect the rent for my existence.
Perhaps living is this:
not defeating the darkness,
but sitting inside it
and waiting for some small light
to have forgotten to abandon us.
So tonight, I do not promise happiness.
I promise only to stay.
One more night.
One more breath.
One more small act of resistance
against everything
that tried to convince me
that I was already lost.