Zebra Seeking Spoons

Some days my body feels like a zebra

standing in tall grass—

striped with contradictions,

rare but real,

misunderstood by anyone

who only knows horses.

Pain flickers along the stripes,

a Morse code I never asked to learn,

telling me today will cost more

than I planned to spend.

My spoons scatter early—

dropped in the hallway,

left on the bathroom counter,

forgotten under the weight

of simply rising from bed.

People ask why I can’t just find more,

as if I were hiding them

in some secret drawer.

But a zebra can’t turn into a horse

by wishing.

And I can’t trade this body

for one that behaves

just because I have things to do.

Still, there is a quiet resilience

in those black-and-white lines,

a rhythm of survival

that pulses beneath the ache.

I gather the spoons I have,

cradling them like fragile silver truths,

and step forward—

not gracefully,

but honestly.

Even on the hardest days,

some part of me keeps moving,

striped and stubborn,

carrying a small glint of hope

in the curve of each spoon

I manage to hold.