Good morning! I guess?

I clock out as morning starts to rise,
 With heavy limbs and burning eyes.
 The halls feel quiet, slow, and dim, 
While life begins again for them. They pass me by in softened light,
 Fresh perfume clinging, clean and bright.
 Some fix their hair, still damp and new,
 Like mornings always follow through. Their day begins with steady pace,
 While mine slips off without a trace.
 A borrowed rhythm, out of line,
 Where night feels right and day’s not mine. I crave the bed, the cooling air,
 A faded floral lingering there.
 The hum of cold, the curtains drawn,
 My small escape from breaking dawn. I chose this life, or so I say, 
To trade my nights and lose the day.
 But choice feels thinner than before,
 When rest still feels like just a chore. At nearly five, the sky turns gray,
 And something in me starts to sway. 
A quiet truth I can’t ignore—
 I am not a kid anymore. No one will come to take my place,
 No slowing down this steady pace.
 No gentle pause, no hidden door,
 Just showing up, then giving more. It’s bills and time and things to be, 
And who I am versus who they see.
 It’s fear that stays, then asks for more,
 Then waits for me outside the door. Adulting’s not some distant plan,
 It’s doing all the things you can.
 It’s waking up, though spirit’s worn,
 And still returning every morn. And I am tired—down to the core,
 The kind that aches and settles sore.
 But morning comes like it has before,
 And I’ll clock in… and be this more.