Today,
my body is too heavy to carry.
Even lifting my head
feels like asking too much
from muscles already trembling
under the weight of simply existing.
So I stay here.
In this bed
that is supposed to be a place of rest
but has slowly become
the border of my world.
Four walls.
A ceiling.
A window.
And somewhere beyond it,
life.
People are getting dressed,
driving somewhere,
meeting someone,
laughing around tables,
making memories
without having to negotiate
with every inch of their bodies first.
And I am here,
measuring the distance
between myself
and a glass of water.
There is something terrifying
about feeling this weak.
About wanting to move
and discovering
that wanting
is not enough.
There is something lonely
about hurting this much
where no one can see it.
No one hears
the conversations I have with my body—
Please.
Just let me sit up.
Just give me enough strength
to feel human today.
I miss being held
without worrying that touch will hurt.
I miss being included.
I miss being more
than someone lying beneath blankets
waiting for symptoms to loosen their grip.
Sometimes
the silence becomes so loud
I can almost hear
everything I am missing.
And I want to scream,
I am still in here.
I am still the person
who wants to laugh,
to sing,
to write,
to love,
to belong.
My body may be confined
to this bed today,
but I am still here.
Weak does not mean gone.
Resting does not mean surrendering.
And even on the days
when my entire world
is reduced to a pillow,
a blanket,
and the light coming through my window—
there is still a life inside me
quietly whispering,
Please stay.
Someday,
the world will feel bigger
than this bed again.
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