The pit of my stomach,
My legs half dangling,
My motionless body,
The damp pillow,
My swollen eyes,
This drab room,
My sunken spirit,
These uncombed hair,
My lost motivation,
All this wasted time,
My guilt and pretentious laugh,
False reassurances and raw wounds,
All ask in unison
Can mere survival be considered a fight?
Can not giving up be an indication of courage?
Will getting through this amount to victory?
My phone rings.
It’s my mother.
I loved breakfast, I tell her and keep the phone down.
I leave the questions for some time later.
Because for now, I have to finish the food before she’s back.