no matter what i do, failure keeps my address. it shows up early, sits in the front row of every win, arms crossed, waiting for me to slip. i reach for success and it feels like carrying water in my hands, no matter how careful i am it leaks through my fingers and i’m left staring at what’s gone instead of what i held. even when i make it somewhere, my mind drags a spotlight over every crack in the floor and calls it proof that i didn’t deserve to be there. i climb things just to look down and count how many steps i missed on the way up. every accomplishment feels counterfeit, like i stole it from someone better and i’m just waiting to get caught. my reflection doesn’t celebrate with me, it audits me, flipping through every moment i fell short, every way i could’ve done more, been more, tried harder. success whispers and failure screams, and my heart always listens to the louder voice. it’s exhausting living like this, like i’m running a race where the finish line keeps moving backward. i don’t fail once, i fail retroactively, my brain rewriting the story until every victory turns into a footnote under what i messed up. i try to be proud and it curdles into shame. i try to rest and it calls me lazy. i try to grow and it reminds me how far behind i am. failure isn’t something that happens to me, it’s something that narrates me, following me like a shadow insisting it’s real, and i’m just pretending to exist in the light