The War Within

My body is a battlefield where friend and foe are blurred, where mornings ache in silence and pain has no kind words.

I wear a smile like armor, but my joints tell other tales— of fire threading through my limbs, of strength that sometimes fails.

No cast, no sling, no warning sign, no proof to hold up high— just weary bones and sleepless nights and questions met with sighs.

Doctors speak in riddles, labs don't tell the whole— I'm chasing shifting shadows that slip beyond control.

"You're fine," they say, "you look so well," but healing hides so deep. I fight a storm beneath my skin each time I try to sleep.

I grieve the self I used to be, then rise with shaky grace, and face the day with quiet grit— no medals for this race.

But still I move, and still I breathe, and still I try to mend, with every flare, I learn anew how fierce I must pretend.

So if you see me standing tall, know this, my hidden truth— I’ve battled harder just to be than many ever do.