This Isn’t Weakness — I’m Just Tired (In New York)

In New York,

no one asks how you're doing.

Everyone's rushing somewhere,

and if you’re tired, if you cry, if you stop —

just don’t block the subway doors.

**

Rent feels like robbery.

Takeout feels like gambling.

Sometimes I stand in front of a Whole Foods shelf

staring at one box of salad for ten minutes.

Not because I can’t decide —

but because if I eat this today,

I might not eat well tomorrow.

**

It’s not that I don’t want to socialize.

It’s just... I’ve tried. And I’m tired.

Tired of talking for hours to strangers

who say “let’s chat again” and disappear.

Tired of sharing feelings with friends

only to feel like a burden.

Some nights, walking home,

the streetlights stretch my shadow so long

it makes my loneliness louder.

**

I’m not afraid of love.

I’m just afraid of loving wrong again.

I want someone to talk nonsense with,

not someone checking my résumé

or calculating relationship ROI.

**

Living in New York

feels like a physical and emotional marathon.

Even breaking down

has to be scheduled for weekends.

**

They say I’m strong.

But that’s not a compliment.

That’s just what survival looks like

when you have no one to fall back on.

**

So please —

don’t tell me to “keep going.”

My tank’s been on empty for weeks.

I just haven’t found a place to pull over yet.

**

Tiredness isn’t weakness.

It’s a human response

to high-pressure living.

In a city that never lets you stop,

I’m not strong.

I’m just alone.