Uncounted

I wake up already tired,

like the day has made its mind up about me

before I’ve spoken a word.

My hands feel borrowed,

useful once, maybe,

but now just taking up space

at the ends of my arms.

I move through rooms unnoticed,

a chair no one sits in,

a clock no one listens to

until it’s too loud or too late.

Every effort feels small,

shrinking even as I offer it,

like coins slipped into a jar

with a hole in the bottom.

I wonder if absence would echo louder

than my presence ever has,

if the world would pause longer

for the things I never did

than for all the things I tried.

There’s a dull ache in being capable

but never chosen,

being willing

but never asked.

So I fold myself inward,

make less noise,

take up less air,

as if disappearing politely

might finally feel like contribution.

And still, beneath the weight of it,

something stubborn remains,

a quiet pulse that says

this hurt is real,

and real things, even broken ones,

were meant to matter.