Poem: Caged in Cotton & Chains

They call it rest.

They call it lucky.

They call it “taking it easy.”

Like this bed is some kind of throne—

but tell me, what kind of kingdom has walls that close in?

What kind of palace feels like a prison?

What kind of mattress swallows you whole,

whispers lullabies of exhaustion,

and never lets you rise again?

This is not rest.

This is not luxury.

This is survival.

Barely.

The weight of my own bones is an anchor,

the air too thick, too heavy to lift my chest.

My muscles scream in silent agony,

each fiber unraveling like threadbare cloth.

This is fatigue that doesn’t fade with sleep,

this is pain that does not end with pleading.

This is weakness that defies willpower.

And yet, they tell me to try harder.

As if I am not already

fighting an invisible war

on a battlefield no one believes exists.

They don’t see the chains,

the ones wrapped tight around my ribs,

the ones that turn every breath into a battle.

They don’t see the shackles at my ankles,

how they keep me tethered to this bed,

this coffin-in-waiting.

They don’t see the cage

built from silence, stitched from shadows,

where the only light burns too bright to bear.

They walk past my window,

laughter drifting like ghosts through the cracks.

I watch the world spin—

faster, faster—

while I lay still.

Left behind.

Forgotten.

Dust in their rearview mirror.

I dream of movement,

of chasing the wind,

of standing without shaking,

of walking without fear.

I dream of sunlight that doesn’t burn,

of open air that doesn’t suffocate.

Of a body that is not a battle.

But here I am.

Chained.

Consumed.

Crying.

-Giusiana