Zebra Seeking Spoons

By noon

I have already spent tomorrow.

The drawer that once held shining silver

is nearly empty—

not from laziness,

not from lack of will,

but from the quiet cost

of standing upright in a body

that negotiates every movement.

Each spoon is a decision.

Shower or breakfast.

Email or appointment.

Fold the laundry

or fold myself into the couch

and try not to resent gravity.

People think spoons are small things.

In my world

they are currency,

oxygen,

proof of possibility.

I budget carefully.

I ration hope.

I measure my day

in teaspoons.

And still—

the drawer grows bare.

When the last spoon clinks against porcelain

and there is nothing left to give,

the world does not pause.

The clock does not soften.

The pain does not bargain.

So I sit in the quiet aftermath

of effort,

learning the shape of enough.

Some days

running out of spoons

feels like failure.

Other days

it feels like survival—

like I spent them on living,

on trying,

on loving the people

who do not see the arithmetic

behind my smile.

Tomorrow

I will open the drawer again.

Maybe there will only be one.

Maybe that one

will be enough.