Writing

When I was small,

the sky was a storybook—

every page dotted with stars

too many to count,

each one whispering my name.

But now the nights glow

with lights that never sleep.

Her blood is engraved into these pages

Slowly unraveling the truth

Exposing every flaw in perfection

Every short-lived high

Every precocious low

Has driven the knife deeper into her lingering past

the numbers scream

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

we are not composed of numbers

so why do we let them define us?

Then he disappeared into the shadows of his bunk, leaving me and Kael in silence. 

(YWP Editor's Note: Congratulations to Csquared! This poem is the November 2025 winner of  The Tomorrow Project's monthly awards!

Past the burning day, 

at bedtime when I shrug off sleep, 

when I've got school the next morning, and I shouldn't be here,