Still to be Determined

Burnout ain’t just a buzzword.

It’s a body ache,

a soul sag,

a tired so deep

no sleep can reach.

We drag dreams

through deadlines,

chasing titles

like trophies,

pushing through pain

like it’s praiseworthy.

Why we run ourselves

into the dirt?

Still to be determined.

Maybe it’s that little girl

in the back row of the class,

trying to be

twice as good,

so they’ll see us

as half as human.

Maybe it’s mama’s voice saying:

Don’t let them see you rest, baby.

Rest looks like weakness.

We grind

‘cause we’re told we gotta—

for the house,

for the nameplate,

for the seat

at a table

that still

ain’t got seasoning.

But what is it really for?

Personal accomplishment?

Societal perfection?

Or just because

we don’t know

what we’d be

without the hustle.

Clock in.

Suit up.

Smile hard.

Every yes, of course

is another crack

in the mirror,

where our real selves whisper:

Is this success

or survival?

I’m tired.

Of proving.

Of pushing.

Of performing.

Of being everything

to everyone,

and forgetting

who I am

to me.

Maybe rest

is the revolution.

Maybe joy

is the protest.

Maybe the most radical thing

I can do

is just stop.

And breathe.

And let the world figure out

how to turn,

without my spine

holding it up.

Still to be determined.

But I’m done

being the question mark

in someone else’s answer.