Still, I Wake

Some days,

I wake up

like a forgotten letter—

creased,

faded,

but still breathing ink.


The fan spins above me,

whispers like an old friend,

telling me

nothing has changed—

and somehow,

everything has.


I don't run toward the sun.

I just sit.

Still.

Let the tea go cold.

Let the light fall on my cracked wall.

Let silence take its place beside me

like a loyal ghost.


I think of the city.

Of people walking fast.

Of boys chasing dreams.

Of girls laughing at nothing.

And me—

writing about it all

from a room

that forgot how to smile.


But da—

I didn’t quit.

Even when my bones

felt like soaked paper,

even when the poems

stopped coming like rain.


Still, I wrote.

Still, I spoke.

Still, I stayed

when staying felt like drowning.


They say

“make something of yourself.”

But I don’t want to be

“something.”

I want to be

someone—

who felt deeply,

who saw the cracks

and still called them beautiful.


So here I am.

Not loud.

Not big.

Just here—

with my voice.

With my truth.


And maybe,

if you’re hearing this—

you know it too:


We’re not broken.

We’re just

still becoming. 

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