Little Bit Poem by Roxy Kovács

I've been trying to write,
but the nights are heavier now—
loneliness pressing like a second skin.
I've been running from my demons,
pretending they don't exist,
but they linger.
No, they don't fade.
Not even a little bit.

Just a little bit—
I feel the edge creeping back,
a quiet whisper:
what if this time, I don't fight it?
It's hard to say,
harder to admit.

I've been searching for comfort
in hollow places,
sifting through old photos,
faces frozen in time.
Who am I now?
This stranger wearing my skin—
wasn't my soul once golden?
Once alive?

Now I drink to dull the ache,
smoke to blur the edges.
But nothing ever stays.
No one ever stays.

Toxicity feels like home these days.
I don't fall in love;
I chase the spark,
the fleeting electricity—
a firework gone
before I can name it.

I want to feel again,
to remember the way it was back then,
when the world wasn't so sharp,
when freedom tasted like summer,
when I didn't care about degrees or plans—
I was alive.
Back then, I was free.

Now, anxiety devours me piece by piece.
Every breath feels borrowed,
and I wonder—
how much longer can I hold on
when I no longer feel the need
to stay?

Just a little bit,
I want to taste food
and not feel disgust.
I want to feel love,
not lust.
I want to meet my own reflection
without the crushing fear
of growing,
of being too much,
too wrong.

Just a little bit.
Even for a day.
Maybe two.