Searching the Wreckage of Myself
I’ve been looking for my sanity.
Pretty sure it slipped out the back door
without bothering to shut it,
dragging my motivation by the wrist
and pulling loose the last few thoughts
I’d managed to keep upright.
Inside my head: wreckage.
Drawers overturned, lights buzzing,
memories on the floor like broken glass.
I keep circling the same rooms in myself,
tripping on old fears,
finding grief where I thought I’d buried it.
I’m so goddamn tired—
the kind of tired that sinks into bone,
into all the soft places I hide
because I’m still pretending I’m “fine.”
I’m worn thin from holding myself together
with shaking hands and forced composure,
from trying to speak through a fog
that eats every thought before it forms.
Some days I hear echoes of who I used to be—
a faint hum, something steady—
but it slips away before I can touch it.
Everything slips now:
hope, attention, the reason I walked into a room.
I check the corners of my mind
like I might find myself there,
wedged between the dishes
and the ache I carry like a second spine.
I talk to the walls because they don’t ask questions.
They don’t notice how often I fracture.
I’m stitched together with alarms,
with lists, with survival disguised as strength—
a patchwork of what hasn’t given up yet.
The static in my head has its own weather.
A glitching radio,
a low hum I can’t outrun.
Even the voice telling me to get it together
sounds exhausted,
leaning in the dark
catching its breath.
If my sanity ever crawls back,
I won’t ask for explanations—
just quiet.
Just a moment where my thoughts don’t scatter
or crash.
A little mercy for the parts of me
that feel rubbed raw.
Until then, I’ll keep going—
not bravely, not beautifully—
just… going.
Dragging myself forward,
one scraped-up thought at a time,
sifting through the wreckage
for whatever pieces still belong to me,
hoping there’s a version of myself in here
that remembers how to stay.
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