Against My Own

They say I look fine— like the war inside don’t count if it ain’t drawn in blood, ain’t wrapped in gauze, ain’t loud. But my body been riot since the start, burnin’ bridges in my bloodstream, callin’ peace a threat and self a stranger.

Call it lupus, call it RA, call it that thing you can’t pronounce today. Call it invisible, but know it’s loud— screamin’ through my joints, marchin’ through my spine, makin’ my skin a cage I can’t climb.

Wake up to a tremor, not in the earth but in me. Exhaustion like a second skin, grief without a funeral. My immune system stay strapped but forgot who the enemy is— now I’m the battlefield, and the soldier, and the casualty.

Tryna explain to folks with clear skies that I got thunder in my blood. Tryna say, “Pain don’t need permission,” but they too busy lookin’ for proof in scars they can see.

I count spoons like time, budget each breath, pray for days that don’t break me. But even on the floor, I’m a lesson in resilience. I’m poetry in flare-ups, a verse in every ache, still rhyming through the static.

This ain’t weakness. This is warpaint. This is healing dressed in patience, strength with a limp, hope with a pulse.

My body may turn against me— but I don’t.