3:00 A.M.

This poem comes from a 3AM panic attacked I had. Enjoy.

It's 3:00 in the morning.
And I’m awake.
Not by choice—
but because my body decided
to sound the alarm
that something is wrong.

Panic presses down,
tight as a coffin lid.
Claustrophobia crawls under my skin.
And hopelessness—
it’s here again,
nibbling at the edges of my mind,
getting bolder
every night.

I can’t think.
Can’t string words together.
Can’t remember
what it felt like to feel okay.

My job? A joke.
A mindless blur of tasks and front-facing smiles
that leave me hollow.
It’s been weeks—
and I still can’t write.
Not anything of value.
Not anything that feels me.

I feel embarrassed
that I can’t adapt.
Ashamed
that I’m still looking
for something better.
Something remote,
something flexible,
something that challenges me—
not crushes me.

But I feel like I’m losing myself in the meantime.
Like the gears of my mind
are grinding without oil.
Like the language I once knew
is now trapped behind glass—
shattered,
scattered.
A fogged mirror
I can’t wipe clean.

And in all of this—
I live
here.
In this house.
Where heartbreak stains the walls,
lingers in corners,
lays beside me in bed
when no one else does.

I look through the broken lens of it all
and I see two paths—
if you can call them that.

One:
I stay.
Miserable.
Numb.
Donkey-headed,
back bent,
carrying someone else’s weight
until I forget what it was like to walk without it.

Two:
I jump.
No roadmap.
Just stepping stones
across a river that could swallow me whole.

Remote work.
Mobile life.
A new town,
a blank page.
A life no one’s written for me yet.

Both terrifying.
Both unclear.
But one
maybe
has air.

Right now,
it’s all too much.
The world is too loud
and too quiet
at the same time.

But I’m here.
Breathing.
Just barely.
But still.

Maybe I’ll talk myself down.
Maybe I’ll sleep.
What’s left of it.
Two hours of borrowed time.
A sliver of rest
before I put the mask back on.

Good night.
Good morning.
Good luck.