What You Took

What You Took

I wake

to start each day again,

hoping today is better than yesterday.

I think about every movement—

every step, every reach,

the way I sit, the way I lie down.

All of it has a consequence.

All of it leaves a symptom behind.

I don’t wish to achieve great things.

I don’t wish to have amazing things.

I’m not asking for a big life.

I’m asking for uninterrupted presence.

To put my feet in the lake

and just feel the water—

not measure dizziness,

not brace for nausea,

not negotiate with pain,

not scan my body for consequences.

This is what you took.

Moments in life

I don’t get to enjoy anymore,

now covered,

encapsulated in sickness.

I have learned

to ignore what I’m feeling

just enough

to feel what I want to enjoy.

What a skill I have learned.

What a skill

I wish I never had to learn.