I’m not okay, but alright, I’m still here.
Some nights feel heavier than they should,
like the air itself is leaning on your shoulders,
waiting to see if you’ll bend or break.
But you don’t.
You breathe through it, even when it stings.
You stay, even when the quiet gets too loud.
You keep a small flame going
in a room that forgot how to hold light.
There’s a kind of courage in that
the quiet kind, the kind no one claps for,
the kind that looks like simply existing
when everything inside you wants to disappear.
You’re not okay,
but you’re here.
And that means something.
It means tomorrow still has a chance
to be softer than today.
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