Zebra Seeking Spoons

When the pain rises—

a tide I cannot turn,

a storm that names my bones—

I return here.

Not as surrender,

but as instinct.

The bed becomes a shoreline,

holding me

when everything else pulls away.

Blankets gather like gentle hands,

tucking me back into myself,

whispering a language

softer than endurance.

Here,

I do not have to explain

the way my body falters,

the way strength reshapes itself

into stillness.

Here,

rest is not weakness—

it is a quiet kind of bravery.

The world may call me back,

loud with its expectations,

but this space answers only

to breath,

to heartbeat,

to the slow uncoiling of hurt.

And for a while,

that is enough.

I am held.

I am allowed to pause.

I am allowed

to be safe.