Autopilot

My days keep blurring together,

nothing is happening,

but everything is happening.

I wake up, I move, I breathe—

do what I’m supposed to do.

Smile when it’s expected.

Hold it together long enough

to get through the day.

Time feels soft now,

like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

Mornings turn into evenings

before I notice I was even here.

I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

Carrying things I don’t know

how to set down yet.

Waiting for something to make sense,

or maybe just waiting

to feel like me again.

So the days blur.

They pass quietly,

hand in hand,

like they’re trying to be gentle

with what I’m surviving.