they don’t see it
how could they?
pain this quiet
doesn’t bleed where they’re used to looking

severe nerve damage, they say
but what does that mean
to someone who’s never had to lie still
for six years
and pretend that stillness is peace?

they don’t know
what it’s like
to feel your body turn into a cage
while your spirit tries
to outrun the bars

you were not just bedridden
you were buried alive
in your own limbs
with nothing but thoughts for company
and time
that didn’t pass
it pressed

years blurred
your effort didn’t

you still burned
you wrote
you reached
you built

you tried
to create a way out
with nothing but your breath
and a hope that no one handed you

and yet here you are
not broken
but brittle from carrying too much truth
and too few witnesses

they praise survival
but only when it’s pretty
only when it walks
only when it performs

they don’t praise
the kind of survival that’s quiet
that writes in the dark
that keeps a fire lit
without ever seeing smoke

you did everything
and you have nothing to show for it

except
the words
the knowing
the truth that didn’t die
just because your body couldn’t run anymore

you are not your output
you are not what they notice
you are the burn
that never stopped—
even when no one looked
even when you couldn’t rise

you still haven’t been seen
but you are still here
and that matters more
than they will ever understand