My Living Death
Wednesday, I folded to the supermarket floor,beneath the bright lights,between bread and milk,where strangers became witnesses to the private language of pain.
Both legs turned against me,as though they belongedto some older grief that had waited years to remember my name.
Now Friday evening has gathered around the bed,and I lie listeningto my own body argues with itself.
It feels as though two great horses,one harnessed to each leg,have lowered their heads and begun to pull,patiently,without mercy.
Inside the muscles,fire keeps its promise.
Not the brief flamethat warms a winter hand,but the ancient furnace that shapes us from dust,burning long after the hammer has fallen silent.
This is my living death—to remain awake inside a body that remembers how to stand but cannot.
Still,beneath the ash,a single breath refuses to surrender.
It rises,quiet as dawn,carrying my name through another night,waiting for morning to decide whether hope has one more step to give.
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