The Ghost That Lives In My Nerves
I hold myself
like a trembling child
in a house that never quiets.
Pain knocks —
sometimes soft,
sometimes screaming —
but it never leaves.
I tuck myself in
with hands that shake
and prayers I don’t say out loud anymore.
Fibromyalgia is a ghost
that lives in my nerves,
haunting the spaces
between sleep and survival.
But I show up —
not because someone told me to,
but because no one else would.
There is no rescuer.
No strong arms.
No warm voice saying, “You’re safe now.”
So I became him.
I became the father figure.
Not by blood.
Not by name.
But by need.
The one who stays.
The one who soothes.
The one who lifts
even when the weight is me.
I taught myself how to breathe
when the flares made fire of my skin.
I stood guard over my body
when doctors didn’t believe me,
when family looked away,
when silence was louder than care.
Like a Taylor Swift bridge,
I cracked —
but never collapsed.
I stitched my soul
with invisible thread.
I held the door open
for the version of me
who couldn’t walk through it yet.
I fathered my own healing.
I built a spine out of stardust and grit.
So when the pain comes,
and it always does,
I whisper:
“I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
Because I am the father figure.
Even when I’m falling apart.
Especially then.
Thanks ❤
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