Patchwork
Into the morning light I rise,
a reluctant soldier clad in skin,
hair a tangle map of sleepless nights,
the ghost of yesterday weighs within.
Eyebrows, half-plucked reminders
of a time when self-care felt like a dance,
now a chore - a forgotten ritual,
each brushstroke of make-up, a heavy sigh.
I force a smile, an actress in my own play,
lucky if the sun finds me awake for eight.
My socks don't match,
like the thoughts in my head,
a quiet rebellion against order that I long for.
Jeans collecting dust,
just like dreams left behind,
once a fabric of colour,
now a relic of effort spent,
as I make my way through the chaos of my mind,
a patchwork quilt of what was and what is in time.
Still, amidst the mess,
a flicker comes out;
resilience stitched at every frayed edge about.
I learn to breathe,
to give pride to the fight,
finding strength in the cracks,
embracing the light.
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