My body is a battlefield
where friend and foe are blurred,
where mornings ache in silence
and pain has no kind words.
I wear a smile like armor,
but my joints tell other tales—
of fire threading through my limbs,
of strength that sometimes fails.
No cast, no sling, no warning sign,
no proof to hold up high—
just weary bones and sleepless nights
and questions met with sighs.
Doctors speak in riddles,
labs don’t tell the whole—
I’m chasing shifting shadows
that slip beyond control.
“You’re fine,” they say, “you look so well,”
but healing hides so deep.
I fight a storm beneath my skin
each time I try to sleep.
I grieve the self I used to be,
then rise with shaky grace,
and face the day with quiet grit—
no medals for this race.
But still I move, and still I breathe,
and still I try to mend,
with every flare, I learn anew
how fierce I must pretend.
So if you see me standing tall,
know this, my hidden truth—
I’ve battled harder just to be
than many ever do.
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