Burn out, Burn in
I am not a flame that flickers out
I am a sun that collapses inward,
heavy with gravity,
pulling every ounce of myself into silence.
They call it burnout
like it’s a candle stub,
like it’s a thing you recover from with rest and coffee and maybe a nap.
But this—
this is tectonic.
This is my neurons saying enough.
This is language turning into smoke in my throat,
every sound a stone I cannot lift.
Imagine running a marathon every day on a track made of neon lights,
sirens, stares,
unwritten rules you’re expected to know
smile at the right time,
make your body easy,
make your voice normal,
make your difference invisible.
You keep running.
You keep running.
And one day your legs forget how to move.
I used to think burnout meant weakness.
That if I was stronger,
I could carry the world’s noise without dropping it.
But now I see
it is not weakness to stop.
It is survival to shut down.
In burnout, I am raw.
Skin a live wire,
brain a tangled forest where words hide like frightened animals.
I am not gone.
I am conserving.
I am cocooning in silence,
waiting for the world to stop scraping me
like sandpaper.
And when I return,
because I do return,
I will not be the same.
Parts of me shed like snakeskin,
others tougher,
others softer.
Burnout is not failure.
It is the body’s rebellion.
It is truth spoken through collapse.
So if you see me quiet,
see me still,
do not call it laziness.
Do not call it defeat.
Call it what it is
a fire pulling inward,
a sun protecting its core.
Burnout is not the end.
It is the body saying:
enough pretending,
enough performing,
enough.
And maybe
maybe enough
can finally be
Enough
Copyright © Jade McGlynn | Year Posted 2025
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