Hostile Territory

Mornings start in battle,

not against the sun,

but the body I wake inside.

My body bargains with me in whispers and threats.

Every movement is taxed,

and every breath is a ledger line.

I rage at it.

I call my body names you cannot say in polite rooms.

I curse the cells that chose mutiny over loyalty.

I scream at the mirror

until the glass fogs from breath,

with proof that I am still here.

But still, the air,

something so basic

turns predator when I’m not paying attention.

I want to live.

Like, I really want to live.

But my body is a cage that keeps shrinking.

My mind tries to soar while my flesh drags the chains,

and there’s no referee,

no truce.

All I have is the slow drag of days

that blur into numbers on a calendar that I stop flipping.

And I know that one day,

there will be a last twisted tea,

a half finished book with my place still marked.

There might even be an unfinished laugh

caught between inhale and exhale.

And no,

not because I gave up,

but because life was stolen before I even got to finish being me.