Mutiny Of The Flesh

Mornings start in battle.

Not against the sun, but the body I wake inside.

It bargains with me in whispers and threats.

Every movement taxed, every breath a ledger line.

I rage at it.

I call it 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 with proof that I am still here.

But still,

spoons clatter to the floor because my hands shake too much.

Groceries stay in bags because stairs feel like mountains.

And the air;

something so basic,

turns predator when I’m not paying attention.

I want to live.

God, I want to live.

But my body is a cage that keeps shrinking.

The mind tries to soar while the flesh drags chains.

And there’s no referee, no truce,

only the slow drag of days that blur into numbers on a calendar

I stop flipping.

And one day,

there will be a last cup of coffee,

a half finished book with my place still marked.

Even an unfinished laugh caught between inhale and exhale.

Not because I gave up,

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