Zebra Seeking Spoons

The world keeps moving

somewhere beyond the walls—

cars passing,

people laughing,

coffee cooling on café tables

I am not at.

But here,

the ceiling becomes my sky,

my body the storm

I cannot outrun.

Pain hums low,

then louder,

then louder still—

a static that fills the room

until even silence aches.

The blankets weigh like gravity,

pinning me gently,

firmly,

as if the bed itself is whispering,

stay.

Time loosens its grip.

Minutes stretch into soft, shapeless things.

Morning folds into afternoon

without asking permission.

I count spoons I no longer have,

trace constellations in the cracks above,

bargain quietly with a body

that will not negotiate.

And still—

there is breath.

There is the small courage

of staying.

Of resting

when the world insists on motion.

Of listening

when the body speaks in thunder.

I am not doing nothing.

I am weathering.