YOU ARE NOT THAT BAD

For days now, my body’s turned on me,

each touch a spark, a cruelty.

The brush of cloth upon my skin,

feels like a knife is sinking in.

Existing hurts, each breath, each move,

a quiet war I cannot soothe.

I walk much slower, not by choice,

each step a cut, without a voice.

And still I smile when they inquire,

hide the truth, though my wounds conspire.

For pain unseen is hard to show,

and words can’t paint what they can’t know.

But when I break, I call for aid,

and hear the same dismissive shade 

“You’re not that bad, just bear the strain,”

so I wait, in hours of pain.

No help arrives, just empty air,

and I’m left drowning in despair.

Perhaps that’s why I choose to keep

my suffering buried, dark, and deep