I am tired
in a way sleep cannot touch.
Tired beneath my skin,
beneath my bones,
in the quiet places
where I keep storing
all the strength
I swear I used to have.
This flare has lasted so long
I have forgotten
what it feels like
to wake up
and not immediately take inventory—
What hurts?
What’s worse?
What can I manage today?
What will I have to miss?
The world keeps moving
somewhere beyond these walls.
People make plans.
They laugh over dinner.
They go places
without calculating the cost
of getting dressed,
sitting upright,
having a conversation.
And I am here.
Again.
Watching another day
pass through the window
while my body asks me
to wait.
Wait to feel better.
Wait to have energy.
Wait to rejoin my own life.
There is a particular loneliness
in being sick for too long.
At first, people check in.
They ask how you are.
They tell you they hope
tomorrow is better.
But eventually
tomorrow becomes another tomorrow,
and another,
and another,
until you stop knowing
how to answer
“How are you feeling?”
because there are only so many ways
to say,
Still hurting.
Still exhausted.
Still here.
I miss people.
I miss plans.
I miss the version of myself
who could say yes
without wondering
how badly I would pay for it later.
Mostly,
I miss feeling like I belong
to the world outside this room.
I know this flare
will not last forever.
I know my body has crawled
out of dark places before.
But tonight
I do not need to be inspirational.
I do not need to turn pain
into a lesson
or exhaustion
into courage.
Tonight,
I am simply tired.
Lonely.
Hurting.
Longing for my life.
And somewhere underneath
all of that exhaustion,
there is still one small part of me
holding a spoon
I haven’t spent yet.
Not enough to fight.
Not enough to rise.
Just enough
to whisper—
Stay.
There are still days ahead
that will feel different from this one.
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