I’m calling you at 2 a.m., kid,
drunk on the wine of all the years I gave away.
Listen close, the signal keeps breaking up
between who you are and what they’ll make of you.

Stop being the candle that burns itself to nothing
just so everyone else can read their books.
Stop being the well that everyone draws from, but never refills.
I know they taught you that love means
shrinking, folding yourself into the shape
of whatever space they leave for you.

But here’s the thing nobody told us.
You can bleed out quietly and call it kindness.
Evaporating like a river redirected so many times that it forgets its own source.
You can disappear one “yes” at a time
and call it goodness.
And the world will thank you for it
at your own funeral.

So with heavy heart I implore you,
To be the hand that holds itself sometimes.
Be the door that doesn’t always open.
Not because you stopped loving,
God, don’t stop loving,
but because I’m standing here
at the wreckage of every bridge I built
for people who drove across
and never looked back,
and kid,
I’m still hungry.
I’m still the candle.
I’m still waiting for someone to ask
how I am.

Nobody’s picking up.
So I called you.