TBI

Air stalls in my chest.
Thoughts slide off each other
like water on glass.
The room blurs at the edges—
yet my lungs still rise,
my mind still claws forward,
my eyes stay open.

Two years ago
The ground disappeared.
Concrete met the back of my skull
with a sound I still hear.

Hours later
my neck wouldn’t turn,
my body spoke in whispers
I didn’t yet understand.

Time thickened after that.
Days pressed down.
Nights pulsed behind my eyes.

My head hammers.
Light stabs.
My stomach revolts.
Heat floods my skin without warning.

I learn the shape of buckets,
the patience of squinting,
the weight of holding still
so the room doesn’t spin apart.

Paperwork replaces care.
Phone calls replace relief.
Strangers argue over whether
my fall counts.

But my body remembers.

Some mornings
I stand only because the wall allows it.
Some days are crossed off,
not lived.

I keep moving anyway—
not fast,
not well—
but forward.

I hold myself together
so the pain doesn’t win,
so grief doesn’t pull me under,
so my body doesn’t become
the only story I am.

Hands reach for me.
My dad’s voice.
My twin’s presence—
anchors when I drift.

Two years of this.
Soon three.

The pounding returns.
The glare sharpens.
Heat rises.
My stomach knots.

Then—
a pause.

A morning without nausea.
A room that stays still.
Light that doesn’t attack.

I recognize myself again
in the quiet.

Not pushing.
Not bracing.
Just being.

Hope doesn’t arrive loudly.
It tastes faint,
almost unfamiliar—
but it’s there.

Maybe this body
can hold more than survival.
Maybe there is a life
on the other side of this injury.

A life 
beyond my traumatic brain injury.