What My Body Remembers

They say trauma lives in the body.

And mine... 

mine remembers everything.

It flinches at shadows

that aren't even cast anymore.

It burns without fire.

It aches

like it's still being hunted.

No gunshots.

No crash.

Just cells

that never learned 

how to stop bracing for the blow.

They call it chronic.

Call it autoimmune.

But I know what it really is..

my body whispering

what my mouth never could.

The fatigue?

That's me carrying 

all the stories I never told.

The flare-ups?

That's my skin remembering 

how it felt to be unsafe 

for too long.

This body

isn't broken,

it's weathered.

It's the house I ran to

when no one else opened the door.

And I am tired...

not just from the pain, 

but from pretending it has no origins.

But still...

Still, I thank it.

Because with all I've endured..

the things I survived in silence,

the things I never should have walked away from...

this body

let me live.

It didn't give me back everything,

but it gave me breath.

It gave me rhythm.

It gave me just enough fire

to still want tomorrow. 

This is my kindness:

That I didn't leave the earth 

in someone else's hands. 

That the bruises didn't take me.

That the betrayal didn't finish me.

Just this:

I wake up.

Even when it hurts.

Even when I want to dissolve.

I wake up,

and that is the quiet grace.

I didn't know I'd be gifted.

So if you ask me

how I live like this..

with the weight,

the symptoms,

the fog and fire?

I'll tell you:

"It's better than the grave I crawl out of."

And that, 

on its own,

makes every single breath

worth keeping.