spinning out waiting for you

don't you know im right here

i woke up already tired,
like i ran all night
just to arrive back inside myself.

my compass spins in circles,
north feels like a suggestion,
and every road looks like something
i’ve already failed at once.

my dreams sit on the edge of the bed,
untouched,
their shoes still on,
waiting for me to decide
if i’m brave enough to stand.

i used to burn for things—
not this slow, ashen smolder,
but a wildfire that made sense,
that knew what it was consuming
and why.

now i am smoke,
drifting without a source,
coughing up intentions
that never quite turn into action.

the world asks me what i want,
and my mouth opens
full of static.
i scroll past lives that look finished,
polished,
captioned with certainty,
while i can’t even draft
a version of myself
that doesn’t feel temporary.

spinning out waiting for you,
don’t you know im right here?
waiting for you to pull me in.

lights left on too late,
silence ringing louder
than the noise ever did.

i sit at my desk
and stare at the page
like it’s staring back,
daring me to explain
why i stopped believing
that effort leads somewhere.

i’m not broken—
just overworked
a match struck too many times
against the same rough edge,
now warm only in memory.

i wander through my days
one foot out the door
like i’m always about to leave
but never sure
what i’m leaving for.

even rest feels like work.
even hope asks for a resume.

but somewhere beneath the exhaustion,
beneath the dull ache of becoming
no one in particular,
there’s a quiet pulse—
not a dream,
not a plan,
just proof i’m still here.

lost doesn’t mean gone.
burned out doesn’t mean finished.

it just means i need
darkness without guilt,
silence without explanation,
and time long enough
for the fire to remember
why it wanted to burn
in the first place.