Zebra Seeking Spoons

Some days
my body is a battlefield
before I even open my eyes.

The sheets are trenches,
twisted around limbs that forgot
whose side they’re on.
Every joint a fault line,
every nerve a flare
lighting up the dark.

I wake to the sound of it—
not loud,
but constant—
a low, grinding resistance
between what I ask
and what is given.

Advance, I say.
Stand.
Hold a cup, take a step,
be simple, be human.

But my body
misreads the command,
or refuses it entirely,
raising white flags
in places I need strength most.

So I push.
Of course I push.

I draft myself into a war
no one else can see,
spend spoons like ammunition,
measure victory in inches—
a shower taken,
a message sent,
a breath that doesn’t shatter.

But every win
comes with collateral:

fatigue like falling rubble,
pain that lingers
like smoke after impact,
the quiet grief
of friendly fire.

Because this is the truth
I don’t know how to hold—

I am both soldier
and the ground being fought over.

Both the plea
and the resistance.

Both sides
of a war
that cannot be won.

And still,
somewhere beneath the noise,
a softer voice tries to speak:

What if this isn’t war?

What if this is a body
ringing every alarm it has
just to be heard?

What if the trembling,
the stopping,
the breaking—
are not betrayals
but messages
misnamed as mutiny?

I don’t always listen.

Some days
I keep fighting,
teeth clenched,
flag raised,
determined to conquer
what I cannot leave.

But other days—
quieter ones—
I lay down my weapons
beside the ache,
press my palm
to the place that hurts most,
and whisper,

I don’t understand you…
but I am still yours.

And for a moment—
brief as breath—
the battlefield softens,
not into peace,
not yet—

but into something
like a ceasefire.