enough
I swear,
some nights feel like war,
like my mind and my body are stuck in a battle
that neither of them signed up for.
Like I’m running toward something I can’t see,
but I still feel the weight of it chasing me,
pushing, pulling—
gravity made of guilt and ambition,
dragging me somewhere between
"not enough" and "too much."
And me?
I’m just here,
lying awake at 3 a.m.,
rewriting the same sentence in my head:
Why am I like this?
Why do I wake up feeling behind
in a race no one asked me to run?
Why does life feel like a locked door
and I’m the fool without a key?
People say, "You’re worthy."
"You’re enough."
"You matter."
And I nod, like I believe them,
like I don’t spend every night
replaying my own failures in slow motion,
like my reflection doesn’t feel like a stranger
I’ve been trying to make peace with.
Because truth is—
I don’t feel like enough.
Not for love,
not for purpose,
not for the dreams that keep me gasping for air
but never letting me breathe.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Not the sadness,
not the self-loathing,
but the fact that I’m stuck
between wanting more
and feeling like I’ll never deserve it.
Like I’m standing in front of my own future,
watching the door swing open,
but my feet won’t move.
Like ambition is the rope around my neck,
tightening every time I whisper,
“What if I fail?”
And it’s exhausting.
Falling asleep to the sound of my own regrets,
waking up to the same doubts I put to bed,
trying to climb out of a hole
I keep digging deeper.
But happy endings?
Nah.
They don’t feel like mine.
They feel scripted, like someone else’s fairytale
that I keep flipping through,
waiting for a chapter that fits me.
But all I find are bitter tears and burnt-out hope.
All I seem to do is let people down,
It seems like a matter of time before they see through me and slip away like it was always temporary,
like I was never meant to be anything
but a lesson in their story.
So I'm struggling to feel like I deserve love.
I struggle reaching for light.
To celebrate the little victories or others' wins
Instead, slowly pain is becoming my closest friend,
a friends-with-benefits kind of deal,
where I get to lay in bed miserable,
holding back tears because I haven’t earned the right to cry.
Because what have I really lost?
What have I really suffered?
What have I really done
to deserve the luxury of breaking down?
So I don’t.
I just keep patch-working my mind,
sewing the cracks together with weak thread,
hoping it holds long enough
to get through another day.
Because I can’t break.
I won’t break.
Not again.
Not like before.
I tell myself that over and over
like a prayer with no god listening,
like a promise I don’t believe in.
But I say it anyway.
Because maybe—
just maybe—
if I say it enough times,
it’ll finally feel like the truth.
