Borrowed Spine

Borrowed Spine

I wore my fear like a second skin, all wrinkle, no design,

until the day I stood up straight on someone’s borrowed spine.

Your words slipped down my vertebrae, a careful, climbing line—

Each syllable was a tiny brace that whispered, “You are mine.”

~~

The books that lived beside my bed, dog-eared along the seam,

kept lending me their courage like a library of dreams.

I walked on paragraphs and ink when knees refused to stay,

and found a posture made of lines that didn’t look away.

~~

My mother’s hands, my father’s sighs, the friends who wouldn’t leave,

All stitched a stronger backbone than I could believe.

They sent me jokes at 3 A.M. and brought soup instead of wine,

And every check-in, every grin, was one more borrowed spine.

~~

Some days the mirror shrank me down, a rumor in my eyes;

My shadow flinched at open doors, mistook each step for a prize.

On those, I leaned on unseen beams—on mentors, songs, and prayer,

on strangers telling truer truths than I had dared to wear.

~~

But borrowing is not the same as never being grown.

You loaned me a backbone long enough to build a bit of bone.

Now, when the old collapse returns and tries to redesign,

I stand on what we made between your spine and mine.

~~

So if you see me taller now, don’t praise me all alone—

I’m scaffolding and gratitude, not muscle turned to stone.

And when you shake, when you fold in, when doubt redraws your line,

Come lean on me; I’ve got a stash of extra, borrowed spine.