Cold Veins

already listing what I’ve failed to be.

It speaks in sharp, efficient sentences,

never loud, just certain.

Not enough.

Not today.

Not like them.

It follows me quietly,

sits beside me while I try to begin,

turns every small pause into evidence,

every breath into delay.

“You could do more,” it says

which somehow means

“what you did doesn’t count.”

Motivation flickers,

a weak light in a long hallway,

and the voice leans in to dim it:

“If you cared, this would be easy.”

But there are moments

small, stubborn

when I answer back, not louder, just truer:

I am tired, not empty.

I am learning, not behind.

I am trying, and that is not nothing.

The voice doesn’t disappear,

but it falters

just enough

for me to take one step

Because that’s the word that hurts the most

It’s easier than admitting

I’m tired in a way that sleeping doesn’t fix.

My body sits still,

My mind runs through the muck

Tripping over “not enough”

Like it’s a fact and not fear.

Too dumb, I chant,

When the sentence doesn’t come out right.

Too slow,

When understanding arrives

After everyone else has moved on.

I measure myself

With rulers that stretch each day,

Whatever I reach

Is suddenly smaller than it was before.

And still

Something stubborn in me

Keeps showing up,

Keeps opening the book,

Keeps trying to believe

That maybe this isn’t failure

Just the shape of learning

When it’s hard

And no one tells you