Fault Line

Dead center—

not just my back but me.

Little tremors whispered days before,

flickering, fleeting,

soft warnings before the quake.

And then—rupture.

A vice clamps down,

muscles gripping bone, lungs, time.

Breath becomes a stranger.

I was only putting dishes away,

only carrying the weight of weeks…months…years…

only moving what must be moved.

Only.

This body remembers.

The first time—

a breaking so sudden, so violent,

I split in two.

Two hours of silent war

until the sirens came,

until strangers lifted me

from my own wreckage.

But it never fully healed.

It sleeps, lying in wait,

stirring with each unnoticed tremor,

a dormant fault line

until the weight becomes too much again.

Another sharp pain—

a fresh crack along the old wound,

splitting me in two again.

The vice tightens,

stretching forward,

wrapping around my right side,

digging into my ribs,

wringing my stomach

like desperate hands.

I feel each breath I take,

every inhale pressing against the pain,

every exhale stretching taut muscles.

It would be easier to take shallow sips of air,

but I force myself to breathe deeply—

long, steady breaths

to calm my mind,

to quiet my body,

to keep from drowning

in the tension of this moment.

I can’t lie down.

I shift, I search,

struggling to find a place,

a position, a pause—

anything to let me breathe

through the grip,

through the waiting,

through the hoping

that the meds will kick in,

will let me be,

will release me

from this unrelenting hold.

I think of my mother,

how she carried her pain in bottles,

in pills that dulled,

in opioids that swallowed the years.

I think of my sister,

bearing the same burden—

not drowning in it,

but carrying it all the same.

Severe, unrelenting,

nerve pain that demands more,

pushing her toward the sharp edge

of more aggressive treatment.

What will I do?

Wait.

Hope.

Breathe

when it lets me.

Hold on

until

the

fault

line

stills.