Tired

I’m tired. Not the kind you sleep off— the kind that settles in your bones like a storm that never passes. I’m tired of checking the volume of my laughter like it’s a detonator. Of reading the room like it’s a battlefield— every silence a sniper, every glance a grenade. I’m tired of memorizing exits before I memorize names. Of mapping escape routes in the time it takes to say hello. I am not a soldier, but I live in a war zone with no ceasefire, just white walls and shattered glass memories they called home. I’m tired of calling fear a sixth sense. Of flinching at kindness because it’s worn a mask before. Of wondering if peace is just the eye of the hurricane, waiting to spin again. I’m tired of carrying my heartbeat like it’s a crime scene— red tape, flashing lights, “Do Not Cross” signs on every soft place inside me that once trusted too freely. I want— No. I need safety like skin. Peace like breath. Love that doesn’t echo with the threat of fists or the weight of silence. I want hugs that don’t tighten like nooses. Smiles that don’t flicker before the rage returns. Words that don’t bruise just because they’re whispered. I am tired— but I am not weak. Not broken. Not yours to shatter anymore. I am tired— so I lay down my fear like a weapon I was never meant to wield, and pick up hope like a revolution. Give me peace that holds me like morning sun. Give me love that doesn’t ask for pain in return. Give me safety like a home I don’t have to hide in. I am tired. But I am still here. And that is a protest louder than any fist can silence.