Limelight

I wish I could go back
to when you didn’t
even know my name—
when I was a ghost
and that felt like freedom.

Now I’m trapped
in a spotlight that hums like a hospital light,
buzzing, relentless—
a nightmare with good PR.

Sleepless nights
lick me down to bone.
Burnt out like a streetlamp
flickering through its own exhaustion.
I thought this would make me happy.
Thought applause could cauterize depression.

Turns out
clapping hands
don’t drown out
the sound of your own mind
breaking into itself.

I watch my illness
in real time—
front row seat
to the unraveling.
Can’t even lie:
I miss when time felt
like it belonged to me,
not the audience.

Now you’re waiting.
Aren’t you?

Waiting for the relapse.
For the headline.
For me to fall back
into the “old me”
like that version
was easier to digest.

You made up your minds
before I opened mine.
Before you saw
how I am now—
tired like gravity,
insecure like a cracked mirror,
dying in small, polite installments.

I miss when I didn’t
have my therapist
on speed dial—
thumb hovering
like a prayer I don’t believe in.

Scared to explain
how I feel
because feelings turn into spectacle
if you hold them up too long.

So instead—
I reach for a tablet.
Small, white surrender.

While you poke holes
in the life raft,
call it critique,
call it concern,
call it love.

And I’m just here—
trying to float
without turning
my drowning
into your entertainment.

(c)BobChristian