Thornbound

I was running, not just moving,
but free.
Each step a soft rebellion,
each breath a bloom.
I was flying through the field of my dream life.

And then,
I fell.
Hard.
I didn’t yet know what I had lost.
Only that something inside me tore.

That’s when the vines began to grow.
Thin at first.
Just a whisper around the knee,
a murmur inside my mind.

When the diagnosis came, they tightened.
Each word from the doctor-
a tendril,
a twinning stem,
a jagged thorn pressing deeper.

And when he left,
the one who was supposed to stay.
The thorns grew sharper.
Sank deeper.  

Now, the vines live in me.
They wrap around my joints,
and coil around my spirit.
Holding me hostage in my own body,
constricted in my own mind. 

Every attempt to walk feels like resistance.
My gait once light,
now dragging, 
limping from the weight of what clings to me.
The vines burrow into places that once held motion,
try to strangle joy and certainty.
They tangle themselves in what still hopes,
and cling to my heart.

Still, I press forward.
The vines pull, but I pull harder.
Their roots run deep, but so do mine.
And with every step, the vines begin to break.
I leave behind a trail of torn stems,
and the promise that they cannot hold you forever.