I'm Still Here

Where have I gone?

I can't say I'm sure.

Maybe I left

in the middle of folding laundry,

staring for far too long

at the ceiling fan spin

audibly engaged in the quiet hum

hoping it would pull me

somewhere else.

My map went up in flames years ago.

I carry the ashes in my pockets

like they might still whisper directions

as I stand alone in my

metaphorical cornfields.

Everyone says keep going,

but they neglect mentioning

how heavy a body can feel

when the soul’s out of sync,

when each morning wakes me

like an unfinished sentence

that I’m too tired to punctuate.

I water my plants.

I brush my teeth.

I feed the cats.

And my kid.

I say, "I'm okay,"

with such steady breath

it almost sounds like the truth.

But some days,

resilience feels like performance art

with a one-person audience

and no applause,

just a silent auditorium

and the squeaking of my sneakers.

Yet somehow still

there’s a tiny rebel inside my soul

who won't let me rot.

She dances in the void,

filling my cracks with gold

singing, "Kintsugi," in off-key tones

just for the fun of it.

And maybe that's enough.

Maybe hope isn't always loud.

Maybe sometimes

it’s just the decision to stay,

to breathe through the tension,

sing with the static,

and unclench my fists

long enough to feel my pulse

and remember

I’m still here.