I breathe, but it burns—
like lungs weren’t made for sorrow this thick.
Tears come easier than air these days.
I wasn't anyone's center,
just orbiting lives that never noticed my pull.
An add-on. An afterthought. A ghost in a lit room.

I sit in circles and feel like a stranger,
a silhouette in family photos,
laughter echoing through me, never into me.
I don’t fit in this world,
not in the noise of my friends,
not in the silence of my home,
not even in the mirror.

They say I’m here for a reason.
But I search for it like a lost key
in a locked room.

I think I’m a failure,
as a daughter with a voice unheard,
a sister who forgot how to smile,
a lover whose heart never made it back whole.
And now even my books feel heavier than grief.
Every page whispers, not enough.

I’m failing in every ******* thing,
and yet, I wake up again.
I hope death comes slowly,
not because I chase it,
but because I’m tired of running from it.

And if it ever finds me,
I hope that for once,
I don’t have to fail at that too.