My Brain Won’t Just Shut Up

(a poem for the overthinkers, the midnight dwellers, the girls who feel too much)

It starts at night

but sometimes at lunch.

A random, irrelevant, painful memory

crashes into me like an uninvited guest

something I thought I buried long ago,

like that one thing I said in JSS2

that still makes my stomach twist.

It doesn't knock.

It doesn’t ask if I’m okay.

It just flings the door open,

throws itself on my chest,

and whispers,

"Let’s replay all the versions of yourself you wish you could delete."

My brain

is a playlist on shuffle

but it only plays

the sad songs.

The ones with no rhythm, no beat

just soft static and sharp regret.

It loops every mistake

I’ve ever made,

even the ones that didn’t really count

but now echo louder than truth.

It invents problems

that don’t exist yet,

writes a whole series

on disasters that haven’t happened,

casts me as the villain

in stories I never auditioned for.

I tell it to rest.

I do.

I turn off the lights,

put my phone away,

drink water like I’m trying to wash it all out.

But my thoughts

have insomnia and caffeine addictions.

They sit in circles

talking over each other,

competing for who can stress me out the most.

They sip anxiety like bitter tea,

and for dessert,

they serve up that text I didn’t respond to

or that tone I used

that maybe, just maybe, ruined everything.

Sometimes,

I wonder if silence

has ever known me.

Like maybe peace is this exclusive party

I keep getting dressed for

but never get into.

People talk about “stillness”

like it’s this magical place

where your mind takes a nap

and your body exhales.

I don’t know that place.

I only know

nerves that hum like a broken engine,

a heart that beats like it’s trying to outrun itself,

and a soul that’s tired

even when I wake up.

I count sheep.

They count my failures.

Every “no” I didn’t say.

Every “yes” I regret.

They chant it like lullabies,

reminding me I was too loud,

too soft,

too wrong.

I try to write it all out

pen to paper, bleed it out

but even then,

my thoughts scribble in the margins,

answer back,

argue with my healing.

I say,

“I’m okay.”

They say,

“Liar.”

I pray.

Sincerely.

I try to find quiet in prayer,

in surrender.

But even God

kind and patient, knows my brain interrupts mid-dua

to remind me that I forgot to buy toothpaste

or that maybe He’s disappointed in me

for forgetting the last prayer entirely.

It’s exhausting when your brain is louder than your own faith.

And people say,

“Relax.”

As if it’s just a switch.

As if I haven’t tried yoga, breathing,

reading, disappearing,

reappearing with a better attitude.

But how do I relax

when my mind is an alarm clock

that won’t stop ringing

even after I’ve hit snooze with tears?

Still,

every morning,

I rise.

Somehow.

I carry this noise like a second spine

bent, but functioning.

I still get things done.

I laugh. I show up.

I listen to others

even when I’m drowning in myself.

Because maybe

one day

this mind will hum instead of scream.

Maybe one day

I’ll fall asleep without waging a war first.

Maybe one day

I’ll sit in silence

and it won’t feel like punishment.

So i breathe loudly, on purpose.

I wear my softness like armor.

I whisper to myself,

“You are not your thoughts just their favorite host. You are allowed to rest,

even if your mind doesn’t.”