by Seyan Washoma

my fragile body tries its best to mold together,
aching, fraying in the wind.
why did i even begin,
as if i ever had a choice.

all i can hear is the noise—
it surrounds me as i try to stay afloat,
and all i can do is scream
in a world built from void.

everything i do
makes me so annoyed,
so tired, so restless—
to the point i question
if life is worth living.

and yet,
somewhere beneath the noise,
a small hum of life still lingers.
it’s not loud,
it doesn’t promise tomorrow will bloom,
but it reminds me—
i’ve made it through every yesterday so far.

i trace the cracks in my spirit
like constellations,
proof that i’ve broken
and still become art.

maybe surviving is enough today.
maybe hope isn’t the light—
maybe it’s the decision
to keep walking in the dark.

life is worth living,
even when i don’t believe it.
even when my tears taste like disbelief.
because something inside me
refuses to end here.