between shanghai’d treason
and the god hiding behind my knees,
I fight the fiercest weeks
armed with cookies, caffeine, and Instagram dopamine.
mornings strike unmerciful,
little dramas wail like sirens in a siege,
and my courage crests too early—
Tuesdays only, before Wednesday's fall.
I wash my hands like surrender,
water dripping like blood down my sleeves,
face to the sink, scarred soldier
splashing myself back to life.
some Saturdays hold the line,
while Sundays ambush me from the dark,
so I swing a hammer at the wreckage,
obliterating before rebuilding again.
each week, a wayward war.
I count the casualties—
hope, sleep, faith—
yet claim victory, only
because I am still standing.
on Fridays, I stitch my wounds
into words,
a battlefield report no one asked for,
but one I must deliver.