Each dawn arrives, but I do not rise—
a stone sits heavy on my chest,
pressing the air from my lungs,
leaving me hollow,
leaving me gasping.
The clock repeats its sermon,
tick after tick,
a cruel reminder
that yesterday never left—
it only dressed itself in today.
Anxiety coils around my ribs,
a serpent that never loosens,
whispering every wrong turn,
every “what if,”
until silence feels impossible.
Depression is the echo,
a looped recording in my skull:
stay down, stay tired, stay still.
It pulls me into its orbit,
a black star burning through my veins.
Morning should mean rebirth,
but for me it is replay.
I wake not to light,
but to weight—
and each breath feels like surrender.
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