Zebra Seeking Spoons

Morning begins

with the familiar accounting.

Spoons once filled the drawer—

small silver permissions

to move through the day.

Shower.

Conversation.

A short walk outside.

Breathing without thinking about it.

But chronic pain

is a quiet thief.

It takes a spoon here,

another there,

until the drawer grows light

and the day grows heavy.

I reach again

and again

for something gentle

to carry me forward.

But tonight

when I open the drawer

there are no spoons left.

Only knives.

Sharp hours.

Edges of pain.

Tasks that cut instead of carry.

Every movement

splits the day open.

Even breathing

feels like handling something

I was not meant to hold.

This is the hidden math

of chronic illness—

how the body runs out

of soft things.

How the world keeps asking

for spoons

while you are left

trying to survive

with knives.