The Days I Keep
Some days,
I only make it as far as the sink,
to wash my hands and brush my teeth.
Water runs,
but nothing gets washed away.
Still, I count it a victory-
a flag in the dirt of another morning.
The mirror does not lie,
but it doesn't tell the full truth either.
It doesn't show the arguments I won
by walking away.
It doesn't show the nights
I sat with myself
and didn't flinch.
People say they want to know if I'm okay,
I nod.
But okay is a moving target
and some days,
I hit just the edge
and let it count.
There is strength
in showing up ugly,
in being the cracked plate
that still holds the meal.
I used to think healing
was some clean, bright thing-
a sunrise, maybe
or a blooming field.
But now I know:
it's slow laundry.
It's taking out the trash.
It's feeding the body
you have punished.
It's answering your own voice
when it calls.
And that's the life I'm building-
not beautiful yet,
but mine.
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