Zebra Seeking Spoons

They see black and white

and think I am simple—

easy to read,

easy to name,

easy to dismiss.

But my body is a language

they never learned to speak.

It whispers in flares,

in tremors,

in quiet rebellions beneath my skin—

and I am the only one

who knows how to translate.

Still, they ask me to prove it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“Are you sure?”

“Have you tried—”

“It doesn’t look that bad.”

I stand there,

striped and shaking,

holding my truth

like a fragile stack of spoons

no one else believes are real.

But I have learned—

slowly, stubbornly—

that my voice

is also a kind of medicine.

So I speak.

Even when it trembles.

Even when it cracks.

Even when it would be easier

to fold into silence

and let them write my story for me.

I say:

This is pain.

This is real.

This is mine.

I say:

Listen.

I say:

I deserve care

that does not question my existence.

And each word

is a stripe I reclaim—

bold, unbroken,

refusing to blur

for anyone’s comfort.

I am not hard to understand.

I am not too much.

I am not a mystery to be solved.

I am a zebra

learning how to stand

in a world that prefers horses—

and still,

I will not quiet

the truth

running through my veins.