The ABCs of Me

Alone doesn’t always mean lonely, but sometimes it feels worse.

Beneath the smile, there are bruises no one sees.

Choosing peace often looks like silence—but it costs me pieces.

Days blur when I’m in bed too long, but I pretend that’s rest.

Every “I’m fine” is a lie I’ve rehearsed with grace.

Fear freezes me more than failure ever could.

Guilt grows roots in all the places I once bloomed.

Hope is quiet now, but I still keep it like a secret seed.

I imagine better versions of myself more often than I admit.

Jealousy creeps in when I compare my healing to others’ highlight reels.

Knowing what to do doesn’t mean I know how to begin.

Love feels safest in theory. Reality has sharp edges.

My worth wavers when I measure it against productivity.

Nobody really knows how loud it is in here—inside me.

Overthinking isn’t a habit. It’s my language.

People think I’m strong because I never fall apart in public.

Quiet is where I scream the loudest.

Routines are my cages when I’m not okay— but I live in routines.

Sometimes I sabotage soft things just to see if they’ll stay.

Tired isn’t even the word anymore. It’s a state of being.

Unspoken pain has become part of my posture.

Vulnerability scares me, even though I crave being seen.

Wanting more doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful—but I’m scared to say that.

X marks all the places I’ve buried parts of myself to be palatable.

Yearning isn’t weakness. It’s proof I still believe in something.

Zen sounds lovely, but I’m still learning how to be at peace with me.