The Slipping Thread

This drink used to sting.

Now it doesn’t. 

Now it’s just something I do so I don’t feel like I’m just sitting here, waiting.

I keep laughing at things I don’t hear. 

Nodding through conversations I’m not in. 

I think I used to be sharper; wittier.

Or maybe I used to be more honest about how tired I was.

Love didn’t ruin me; that’s not fair. 

It just… unraveled something; gently. 

Like pulling a thread because you’re curious, and then realizing too late it was what held you together.

I keep feeding the same people who’ve already walked away. 

Still checking my phone for names I pretend I forgot. 

Still offering pieces like I’ve got more to give.

I don’t know if I’m sad, or bored, or just out of reasons to try. 

I keep showing up like it means something, but everything I do feels like acting.

I used to want comfort. 

Now I just want quiet. 

The absence of noise; relieved from pretending.

And if I’m being honest, I don’t even care if it gets better.

I just want it to stop:

The noise,

The pretending,

The weight of my failures, misfires, and poor social calculations.

I don’t want some fix.

I want out.

But not in a way that makes me the villain for finally dropping it all.

I want this façade to conclude without looking down and seeing it's my hands pulling the plug.