Zebra Seeking Spoons

Some days I am a strange kind of balancing act—
one hand full of hope,
the other full of lead.

I carry optimism
like a candle cupped carefully against the wind,
protecting its tiny flame
with tired hands that already ache
from carrying too much.

People think hope is light.
They think optimism floats,
that it lifts and soothes and eases the burden.

But hope has weight too.

Because hope means trying again tomorrow.
Hope means scheduling appointments,
taking medications,
stretching aching muscles,
believing this flare will loosen its grip,
believing there are still glimmers waiting ahead.

And exhaustion—
exhaustion is always there beside it,
settled deep in my bones,
a second heartbeat,
a storm cloud stitched beneath my skin.

I am tired in ways sleep cannot touch.
Tired of hurting.
Tired of calculating spoons.
Tired of negotiating with a body
that keeps changing the rules.

Yet somehow
I still catch myself saying:

Maybe tomorrow will be gentler.
Maybe next week will hold a little light.
Maybe there are good days still coming.

And sometimes I wonder
how I can be both things at once—

so deeply weary
and stubbornly hopeful.

But perhaps that is its own kind of strength:

to drag exhaustion behind you
while still making room
to carry a small flickering flame.

To be tired beyond words
and still whisper,

“I haven’t put the candle out yet.”