How Much Longer?

How much longer

do I have to keep telling myself

it gets better?

How many more nights

do I have to survive

before survival

starts feeling like living?

I’m tired.

Not the kind of tired

sleep fixes.

The kind that settles

in your bones.

The kind that comes from carrying

the same hurt

for so long

it starts feeling

like part of your identity.

People tell you

to keep going.

And I do.

God, I do.

But some days

it feels less like courage

and more like habit.

Like I’m just showing up

because I showed up yesterday.

And the day before that.

And the day before that.

Waiting for something

to finally make sense.

Waiting for the weight

to loosen its grip.

Waiting for life

to feel like something

I’m participating in

instead of enduring.

But maybe

that’s the lie.

Maybe life

was never waiting

on the other side

of my pain.

Maybe it’s been here

the whole time—

buried in small moments

I was too exhausted

to notice.

A deep breath.

A quiet morning.

A conversation that lingered.

A reason to stay

that didn’t feel like enough

until later.

I don’t know.

I don’t have some beautiful answer.

Just this:

I’m still here.

Still asking the question.

And maybe

there’s something hopeful

about that.

Because if I were truly done,

I wouldn’t still be wondering.

I wouldn’t still be looking

for a reason.

So maybe

for tonight,

that’s enough.

Not certainty.

Not happiness.

Just the stubborn possibility

that the story

isn’t over yet.