05/12/2026
I told Zack this morning that my body felt like a Shel Silverstein poem.
That thought inspired me to create this poem with AI’s help. Please enjoy. I hope you chuckle, nod, and tear up a bit like I did.
There once was a woman named Me,
Who fought Tiny Monsters intravenously.
They said, “You’ll feel weird.”
I said, “That’s fine.”
Now my body’s a haunted CVS pharmacy.
My right eye grew a stye named Lou,
Who blinked and puffed and oozed a goo.
He sits there all smug
Like a cranky bedbug
Saying, “Girl, I live here now too.”
My mouth grew sores by the score by the set,
So tomatoes and salsa are mortal threats.
I tried eating chips—
Set fire to my lips—
Now yogurt’s as wild as it gets.
Chocolate tastes WRONG.
Takeout tastes BAD.
The tacos I worshipped now make me sad.
My tongue says, “No spice!”
My stomach says, “Rice.”
My soul says, “This timeline is cursed and mad.”
My skin flakes off no matter the cream,
Like a snow globe powered by broken dreams.
I moisturize daily,
But still I look scaly—
A lizard who wandered out of a meme.
And itchy? Oh buddy, you have no clue.
I scratch random sores like a mangy canoe.
One scab on my shoulder,
Two bites on my thigh—
And something mysterious growing near my shoe.
My bruises appear from invisible crimes.
I bump into air and stay purple for times.
A table walks by?
I’m black-blue by July.
My veins hold eternal grudges and signs.
My nose sometimes bleeds just to spice up the day.
Green mucus on Tuesday. Yellow by May.
My body’s producing
New textures and hues and—
Frankly, I’ve stopped asking why things decay.
My hair packed its bags and quietly fled,
Except peach fuzz survived like determined bread mold instead.
The dark strands said, “Peace.”
The fuzz said, “Increase.”
Now I’m part baby bird, part haunted egghead.
My clothes hang like curtains.
My belt’s too enormous.
My butt disappeared without warning or chorus.
My muscles moved out.
No forwarding route.
My jeans look emotionally distant and foreign.
My ears itch inside, dry as the moon,
Though usually wax shows up every afternoon.
Now they’re crunchy and bleak
Like an abandoned creek
Where moisture got evicted too soon.
Some nights I can’t sleep at all in my bed,
While stressful dreams throw full parades in my head.
I wake up confused,
Emotionally bruised,
With anxiety tap-dancing near where I dread.
My neck and chest tighten from stress and fatigue,
While my brain fog rolls in dense as the sea.
I forget what I’m saying
While actively saying—
Then stare at the fridge like it owes me a key.
I’m hot. Then I’m cold. Then I’m lava. Then sleet.
My joints creak like pirates with each little beat.
I worked out “lightly” once—
A terrible choice—
Now my thighs file complaints when I stand on my feet.
My potassium’s low.
My enzymes are high.
My liver’s reviewing my choices nearby.
My blood counts are funky—
Both red cells and white—
My immune system’s basically “thoughts and goodbyes.”
There’s a port in my chest underneath all my skin,
Like a weird little robot installed from within.
Sometimes I poke it
To make sure it’s real—
Then immediately wish I had not checked again.
Labs every week.
Appointments galore.
People keep asking what vein they’re for.
I chew ice at infusion
For mouth sore prevention—
The mouth sores said, “Cute. We’d like seven more.”
I’m nauseous sometimes.
Not hungry at all.
Then suddenly starving for pickles and salt.
I force myself eating
Like it’s homework assigned
By a tiny nutritionist goblin at fault.
Sometimes vertigo spins me around like a ride,
And I wobble dramatically side to side.
I walk through the hallway
Like a pirate on gravy
While pretending my dignity hasn’t yet died.
I’ve got a long scar from my belly down low,
A roadmap of places I never would go.
A reminder my body
Went fully to battle—
Though honestly… damn, it survived quite a show.
Some days I feel hopeful.
Some days I feel numb.
Some days every feeling arrives all at once.
Depression drops by,
Then gratitude too—
Then rage because apples suddenly taste dumb.
And strangest of all in this odd in-between
Is watching the world stay relentlessly seen.
People buy patio sets.
Have meetings. Fold laundry.
While I sit contemplating what “living” might mean.
But somewhere beneath all the itching and ache,
The fog and the fear and the sleep that won’t take,
There’s still someone in here
Who laughs at the chaos—
Who says, “Well… this body’s dramatic, for heaven’s sake.”
But even through all of the poking and pain,
The weirdness and worry that rattle my brain,
Something surprising
Keeps showing up softly
Again and again and again.
Friends send messages. Family calls near.
Strangers hold doors and are strangely sincere.
People bring soup.
People bring flowers.
People say, “Thinking of you, dear.”
And somehow the world still keeps offering things—
Warm golden sunlight and soft drizzling springs.
The smell after rainfall.
A breeze through the trees.
Tiny miraculous everyday things.
My Pomeranian curls by my side,
A warm little cloud with his paws tucked inside.
His soft fuzzy chest,
His sleepy small sighs—
A heartbeat reminding me life hasn’t lied.
And even though salsa betrayed me this year,
There are new foods appearing that taste bright and clear.
Fresh herbs and broths,
Warm roasted garlic,
Little discoveries bringing back cheer.
Outside in the garden the butterflies roam,
While beetles and bees carry on with their own.
The birds still sing loudly.
The flowers still bloom.
The earth keeps whispering, “You’re still home.”
And maybe that’s all any of us can do—
Keep finding small beautiful moments to move through.
A laugh. A warm drink.
A hand reaching out.
A body still trying its best to pull through.
So yes, I am tired.
And yes, this is hard.
And yes, some days leave me completely charred.
But somewhere beneath
All the chaos and fear…
There is still softness.
Still wonder.
Still heart.
