All Out of Borrowed Time

I think I’m all out

of borrowed time—

all the second chances

I kept spending

like they’d never run out.

The warnings came.

In sleepless nights.

In empty bottles.

In promises

I swore I’d keep tomorrow.

In the people

who looked at me

like they were waiting

for me to save myself.

But tomorrow

kept moving.

And I kept acting

like there’d always be

one more sunrise

to get it right.

One more apology.

One more attempt.

One more chance

to become someone

I could live with.

Now I stand here

looking at the wreckage

of all the things

I thought I had time for.

And maybe

that’s the cruelest lesson—

how quickly forever

turns into someday,

and someday

turns into almost.

But I’m not writing this

as a eulogy.

I’m writing it

as a reckoning.

Because maybe

being out of borrowed time

isn’t about dying.

Maybe it’s about finally realizing

you can’t keep postponing

your own life.

Can’t keep waiting

for the perfect moment

to change.

Can’t keep treating

your future

like a guarantee.

So here I am.

Late.

Bruised.

Honest for once.

With nothing left

to borrow.

Only what’s in front of me.

Only this breath.

This day.

This chance.

And maybe—

maybe that’s enough.

Maybe life begins

the moment you stop acting

like you have forever.