BIRTHDAY BLUES......
It’s that time of the year again... when the calendar screams celebrate, but inside, everything feels like a slow collapse. The candles flicker, but there’s no warmth. My smile? A practiced lie with trembling edges. I count wishes, not blessings— and each one feels like a joke I no longer laugh at. I'm surrounded, yet unbearably alone, voices echo in rooms I’ve mentally left, and everyone’s "Happy Birthday" feels like confetti thrown into a void. There’s a knot in my chest I can’t name, too heavy to lift, too invisible to show. I am angry—at time, at love, at myself, and I keep pushing people away, as if isolation could soothe the burn. The mirror doesn’t recognize me lately. I'm both everything and nothing at once. the world expects balloons but I'm made of broken glass...... I retreat—again—to the only place that never judges my unraveling: my pen. My quiet, faithful witness. It’s that time of the year again, where I bleed through ink instead of tears. Oh well, it’s really that time of the year.........
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