The Hours That Aren't Mine
In the hush of night, I return to myself.
The world goes quiet,
and I come alive—
not in bold color,
but in the soft grayscale
of blinking lights and tired eyes.
Everyone sleeps.
The dishes are done,
the baby's breath is steady,
and silence finally fits
like a sweater I've outgrown
but can’t let go.
I sit in the hush,
stitching pieces of myself
back together
with words,
with tea,
with scrolling through dreams
I’ve shelved for someday.
It's not rebellion—
not really.
Just a whisper of the girl
I used to be
tracing outlines in the dark,
hoping the night
won’t end too soon.
Because in these hours—
borrowed,
stolen,
earned—
I belong to no one
but me.
About the Creator
Carolina Borges
I've been pouring my soul onto paper and word docs since 2014
Poet of motherhood, memory & quiet strength
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Comments (4)
The scrolling though... This is too real!
So true. Loved the image of silence fitting like an outgrown sweater
I’ve felt this so many times. You articulate it beautifully
This felt soooo blissful. Loved it so much!