The Weight of Being Me.

I wish I was anyone but me.

Someone who doesn’t need a substance
to quiet the noise.

Someone who doesn’t throw themselves into work
until exhaustion wins
because stopping means thinking.

Someone who can sit in silence
without it feeling like drowning.

Someone who doesn’t crave mania,
doesn’t miss it,
doesn’t wait for it to come back
because it’s the only time
being alive doesn’t hurt so damn much.

Someone who doesn’t chase hypersexuality
like a drug,
looking for relief
in bodies, attention, distraction,
anything to outrun themselves.

Someone who doesn’t push harder at the gym
when they’re breaking inside,
adding more weight,
one more rep,
one more mile,
hoping physical pain
will finally be louder
than emotional pain.

Someone who can hear their mother’s voice
spit hatred
and not be ripped straight back
into childhood.

Someone who isn’t carrying decades of ghosts
everywhere they go.

I am so tired.

Tired of surviving.
Tired of coping.
Tired of fighting my own mind
every single day.

I don’t want to be stronger.

I don’t want to be resilient.

I just want one day
where it doesn’t hurt this much
to be me.