Burnt.

My calendar is a coffin lid—

nailed shut with meetings,

stacked obligations pressing like dirt on my chest.

My phone—

a fire alarm that never stops shrieking.

Every buzz another hand yanking at my hair,

another mouth screaming answer me now.

The dishes boil in the sink like acid.

Laundry climbs my walls like ivy, choking the windows.

Every corner of this house is a jury,

dust bunnies filing charges,

post-its becoming epitaphs.

And outside—

the obligations claw at me.

Housewarming. Dinner. Movie night. Birthday.

Every RSVP is a shackle,

every “yes” a chain clinking shut around my ankle.

I stir pasta with one hand,

scrub counters with the other,

answer emails with my teeth clenched tight

while the phone howls from under the rubble.

And just when I think it can’t get louder—

the headlines crash through the door.

Breaking news.

Breaking bodies.

Breaking futures.

Every scroll a new disaster,

every feed a fresh catastrophe dressed in neon font.

Wars, storms, scandals, fires—

I carry them all like bricks in my skull,

my brain a bulletin board plastered with grief.

I am drowning in a sea of reminders,

pummeling me like waves crashing down,

every notification another lungful of salt.

And still, they ask me why I look so tired.

Because I am smoke.

I am the match already spent,

struck raw against the box until I break in half.

I am ash in a body costume,

walking, talking, smiling—

dying for a moment of silence

that never comes.