Silent Battle

I’m tired.

Tired of being tired.

Tired of the shards of glass that sticks my skin then disappear.

Tired of the achy bones, that feel broken like my heart after a bad break up.

Tired of going to sleep late and waking up early like a grandmother at the age of 99.

I wish you could see,

see for one moment, one second what it’s like to live with a chronic disease.

Invisible gunshot wounds to the flesh.

Torn skin ravaged by wolves, bloodless

A wheelchair patient that walks.

How about keeping a cane near the bed for flares?

Now that’s sexy…not.

How about needing a handicapped sticker and

being scared someone will yell at you for looking normal because you can walk.

If they could have one day, one moment in my skin they'd be giving it back,

not because of oppression but because of the pain.

It’s not easy to talk about the things unseen.

To make assumptions because perception is one half of the truth.

Underneath these clothes, this smile, the appearance, lies the answer to what you thought you knew.

I am not ok.

I will not be healed with a vitamin.

No plant-based diet,

no herbal tea,

no trip to bathe in the Dead Sea.

No wishing it away, no prayers, only a hope for a cure for tomorrow exists,

along with many opportunities that are missed.

I'm stuck, even at this moment I'm being cut with a thousand knives.

Sympathy is not needed, I’m a fighter I've been through worse.

My life is unending suffering, but I endure.

There is nothing you can do,

no words,

no tears,

no song you can sing.,

no moving to warm weather,

no moving to cold,

no Rain,

no Sun,

it's all bad weather.

Only prayers for strength.

Being trapped in a body of torment is enough.

I’ve learned to be more vocal about my silent suffering,

and guess what I’m not ok.

Even still I wake up every day and I’m grateful.

Living life in pain makes you not ask for much.

It makes you appreciate the little things.

Every day without flare is a win,

and every day is an opportunity to do something amazing again.

So, the next time you see someone who looks ok in wheelchair or in a handicap spot,

don’t be the creep that’s upset at what they can't see and don't know.

That person’s story may not be something that shows.

It’s not yours to tell and not yours to critique

It’s the warrior that’s fighting and the silence they keep.