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.