Wake-Up Call

I’m waiting for my wake-up call,

the moment everything finally clicks,

the scene where I make sense again

instead of feeling like a stain

on the life I’m trying to live.

Everything feels like my fault,

even the things I never controlled.

I’ve learned to apologize

for the weather,

for silence,

for simply existing in the room.

People say “stop blaming yourself,”

but they don’t see the replay in my head,

the way every memory sharpens

into something I did wrong.

I keep waiting for something to change,

for the pain to loosen its grip,

for the world to send a sign

that I’m not the reason everything breaks.

But maybe the call’s not coming.

Maybe no one’s going to shake me awake,

pull me out,

or rewrite the story for me.

Maybe this is the truth:

the world won’t save me.

No one’s coming to fix what I carry.

And if I keep waiting…

I’ll drown in the waiting.

So no—

there is no wake-up call.

Just me.

Still breathing.

Still breaking.

Still here in the dark—

and the only way out

is by choosing to move

even when nothing in me wants to.