Late Check-Out in My Own Head

Some days I feel like I’m walking through fog

in my own skin —

like the air got thick

and I can’t remember when it happened.

 

I light a cigarette just to see

something burn on purpose.

The smoke curls up like a secret

that doesn’t want to be told.

 

I don’t cry.

I don’t break things.

I just go quiet —

which is worse,

because that’s when the thoughts get loud.

 

Depression ain’t dramatic.

It’s the way I forget to eat.

The way I lie to my friends —

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Sure.

Fine.

Peachy.

 

I’ve solved murders.

I’ve stared down liars

with blood on their hands

and God in their excuses.

But I still can’t always solve

why my heart feels like

a locked room mystery

where I’m both detective

and the girl hiding under the bed.

 

But listen —

I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still putting on eyeliner

even if it’s just to feel like someone

the world should take seriously.

 

Some nights,

I sleep in my own arms

because it’s the only place

I feel held.

 

And in the morning —

even the heavy ones —

I get up.

Not because I’m strong.

But because I’m stubborn.

 

And I’ll be damned

if the darkness thinks

it’s gonna win without a fight.