Of Memories Past Normal Hour

1:30 a.m.
It’s dark and quiet.
I’m stressed and lonely.
There’s no one by my side,
And the absence feels devastating.

2:00 a.m.
I feel the heaviness creeping in.
The little child in me is crying for help.
My mind feels like a cell,
And I’m locked inside it with no key.

2:30 a.m.
I’m sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth.
I can hear my heartbeat.
Too loud, too fast.
My head is pounding.
I keep telling myself to get it together,
But my voice sounds unfamiliar, distant.

3:00 a.m.
I’m tired of holding everything in.
The fight is exhausting.
Tears finally spill,
Unchecked, unashamed.
My hair is disheveled.
I barely recognize the person staring back at me.

3:30 a.m.
The memories come.
One after the other,
On repeat.
I relive them until my chest feels too tight to breathe.
I’m unraveling,
And no one seems to notice.

4:00 a.m.
I reach my breaking point.
My body goes still,
My mind goes quiet in a way that scares me.
I lie there, numb and empty,
Wondering how pain can be this loud.
While the world remains asleep.