Can’t You See?

Part I: The Dream

I wait in a clinic, where time drips slow,
Limbs heavy as stone, shadows grow.
Once I soared—a whisper, a song—
Now each move feels jagged, wrong.

A stranger calls, his language skewed,
Words stumble—his, mine—misconstrued.
Monitors blink, a brittle divide,
A bridge too weak to span inside.

He asks me to stand, to lift, to pose,
I try, falter, and up it goes.
My hand, my helper, guides the climb,
A shadow of once-graceful time.

“Nothing’s wrong, you’re strong, secure,”
He says, his voice detached, unsure.
But can he see the gaping chasm,
Where spirit’s light collapsed to spasm?

“You don’t understand,” I plead, soft, low,
“I burned with fire, a bright-hearted glow.
A ballerina, a gymnast, free—
Now even my fall pretends to be me.”

I tumble, nimble, my body unscathed,
But truth’s weight shatters—inside, I’m flayed.
And as he winces from my unmeant strike,
I’m left apologizing for the spike.

The healer limps; I shrink, contrite,
Caught in a loop of guilt’s dim light.
But the dream implores, a cry unspoken:
"Can’t you see? I am broken."

Part II: The Awakening

The day begins, its light thin, gray,
I wake to the hush of skies turned clay.
My arms obey, my legs move free,
The dream’s restraints release me.

But freedom tastes like a hollow prize—
No chains, no ache, but the spirit lies.
I am whole in body, I can stand,
Yet brokenness lingers in the land.

No words can bridge the aching void,
Where drive once burned, now null, destroyed.
No one notices, no one sees,
This silent sickness, this slow disease.

I smile to hide what’s worn and frayed,
The unseen cracks where strength decayed.
But cracks cut deep; they twist, they spread,
And in their wake, the wounded tread.

The dream still whispers, its truth unspoken:
"Can’t you see? I am broken."