When the Light Turns Off

I couldn’t sleep.

The night hummed with a sound I couldn’t trace.

A buzz that lived in the shadows—

silent when light approached,

louder when I turned away.

I listened.

Not for answers—just to survive the hour.

It sounded like a wing,

like a June bug brushing memory,

like something begging to be noticed.

I reached for false comfort—

that ache I’ve known since twelve.

But my hands stilled.

My body is a temple.

Not a tomb for shame.

Not a stage for counterfeit peace.

I sat in the ache and let it pass.

—

I woke up tired.

Tried to rinse the heaviness off in the shower.

Tried to drown the buzz with job applications—

sixty-five planted seeds in dry ground.

One small sprout—maybe.

I told my family.

But hope turned into heat,

misunderstanding into missiles.

It always does.

—

I don’t want to be

the 20-something who’s jobless.

I don’t want to be

the 20-something who’s loveless.

I don’t want to be

the 20-something who feels like too much and not enough

in the same breath.

I just want to be seen.

To be heard.

To be held.

—

But until then,

I plant another seed—

in soil no one else sees.

And I wait for the buzzing to stop.

Or maybe—

I learn to bloom beside it.

- The Soft Witness