Can’t Save Myself From 5AM

Can’t save myself from 5am—

that thin, trembling hour

when the night is almost gone

but refuses to let go,

and I’m caught between yesterday’s ghosts

and tomorrow’s promises

I don’t know how to keep.

There’s something cruel

about the quiet at that hour,

how it magnifies every bruise

I thought I’d healed,

how it pulls old memories

back into my hands

like I’m meant to cradle them

instead of bury them.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling,

watching the darkness pulse

in slow, aching waves,

feeling the weight of every thought

I pretended didn’t hurt.

It’s the kind of loneliness

that doesn’t shout—

it whispers,

it lingers,

it crawls under my skin

and makes a home there.

5am is where the truth comes out—

the truth I hide in daylight,

the truth I swallow before speaking.

It’s where the what-ifs return,

where the could’ve-beens settle

in the corners of my chest,

where the world feels too wide

for someone who feels

so unbearably small.

I try to breathe through it,

try to remind myself

that morning always comes,

that light always finds a way in—

but some nights,

the dark wraps around me

like it knows my name,

like it’s claiming something

I’m too tired to fight for.

Everyone else is dreaming,

and I’m wide awake,

trying to stitch myself together

before the sun finds me

broken again.