Poem: I am neither beautiful, nor admirable

I am neither beautiful, nor admirable.

I am tired, and I am bruised.

The kind of tired that sinks into your marrow,

the kind of bruised that doesn’t fade,

just layers itself over and over

until your body becomes a canvas

painted in pain.

Illness is a thief.

It steals your time, your plans,

your sense of self.

It drags you down,

anchors you to hospital beds

and medication schedules,

turns your reflection into a stranger

with shadows under their eyes

and scars that tell stories

you never wanted to live.

Disease feels like screaming underwater.

No one hears you.

The loneliness wraps itself around your ribs

like a vice,

pressing until you can barely breathe.

You sit in sterile rooms

with doctors who don’t listen

or don’t know,

as you fight for answers

while your body fights against you.

And still, they call you strong.

“You’re so inspirational,” they say,

as if surviving a storm you never asked for

makes you a hero.

But you don’t feel strong.

You feel shattered.

You feel small.

You feel like a shipwreck

dragged to the ocean floor.

I am neither beautiful nor admirable.

I am tired, and I am bruised.

But maybe tired isn’t the whole story.

Maybe bruised doesn’t mean broken.

Maybe strength isn’t in the way you stand tall,

but in the way you keep standing at all.

Maybe the beauty isn’t in the fight,

but in the quiet courage of holding on.

Maybe being admirable

isn’t about being unshaken,

but about embracing the cracks

and saying, “This is me. I am here. I am enough.”

So let the world see the bruises,

let them see the weariness.

Because in the depths of exhaustion,

there’s still a spark.

And though I may not feel strong,

every breath, every step,

every whispered, “I’m still here,”

is a defiance.

A rebellion.

A testament to the soul

that refuses to give up.

-Giusiana