Full stop.

When do I end?

When do I know to plant a full stop

like a seed in the soil of a runaway sentence,

to end the ramble before it drags me under?

My brain, a train with no brakes,

words spilling out—

comma, comma, pause,

but never the end.

______

I speak, I write, I think—

all at once,

a storm that doesn’t know how to rain in parts.

So, I sit still.

Because stopping is better than being at full go.

______

But the stillness is loud.

A lump in my chest,

a scream caught in traffic.

How do I move it?

How do I stop without breaking,

without crashing into the shards of my own thoughts?

______

They call me crazy.

Say I’m a child,

an untamed thing that needs composure.

So, I scrunch myself small,

fold into the corners,

try not to be a hurricane,

try to be quiet,

but the storm never sleeps.

_______

It spirals inside me,

shifting in circles,

a galaxy of unspoken words

that never land on paper.

I want to send the text.

I want to say what I mean.

But where do I start?

How do I end?

______

Self-help books call me:

scatterbrain,

spiraler,

a thing that needs fixing.

But I’m tired of fixing.

Tired of pretending the chaos is broken

when maybe it’s just me.

And perhaps the world i live in—

Maybe.

______

I don’t need neatness.

I need someone to sit in the storm with me.

And the stillness too.

Someone who doesn’t fear the wind

or the endless commas,

who doesn’t try to plant full stops

where they don’t belong.

______

But instead lets me be—

a sentence that trails,

a thought with no end.