​Anxious of the night

When the light starts to fade,

my chest tightens before the sky even turns.

Dark doesn’t scare me—

what it brings does.

Night whispers promises it never keeps.

Maybe she’ll sleep.

Maybe tonight will be different.

But my body already braces,

already knows the math of hours I won’t get.

The house exhales.

Doors close.

Breathing deepens.

Sleep takes everyone but me.

I lie still, listening,

waiting for the cry that feels inevitable,

a countdown I can’t stop.

I am on call for love.

For survival.

For morning.

There is rage in how quiet I have to be.

In how my tiredness has nowhere to go.

In how resentment blooms silently

while the rest of the world rests.

I don’t slam doors.

I don’t shout.

I swallow it.

Rock it.

Feed it.

Carry it in the dark.

The night asks everything of me

and offers nothing back—

except the knowledge

that when the sun rises,

I will still be standing.