They scoop a little energy, like porridge to a waiting mouth.
Invisible, yet rationed—and when we’re out, we’re out.
One spoon might equal waking after 16 hours’ sleep.
Another three might get me bathed; one more, a cup of tea.
To dress my kids? A dozen, on the days their spoons are low.
On other days, just 2 or 3—depletion still, but slow.
I recall the spoons for making up a smoky gothic eye,
Or scarlet lips and glitter blush… those times have passed me by.
Now, at best, it’s a long-sleeved t-shirt, paired with joggers loaned by Hubs,
Add a cardigan as shivers wrack this girl that winters loved.
To leave the house takes courage even more than it takes spoons;
I look a fright, a gruesome sight—I used to make men swoon.
But agonies of pain and fear, that robbed my carefree ways,
Have left no more than a spoon or two, at the close of my best days.
And today? Was not a good one. I was back in bed by noon,
As the spasms twist, my only wish: let this be over soon.
And I know you can’t all see it—the pit of pain inside,
But I’ve told you how I feel, and there’s no need to be snide.
And if seeing were believing, well: you can see my muscles, taut,
You can see my jawline, tight with pain, hear my breathing, laboured, fraught.
And if you’ve anything to say, oh, I hope it will be kind;
A sarcastic jibe, a diatribe? Those should be left behind.
So be careful of your clever words, your judgments harsh, contrived;
For I’m all out of spoons, today—and all I’ve left is knives.