I wake before myself.
My body is already arguing—
a low electrical mutiny in my joints,
organs whispering threats in a dialect
no doctor has fully translated.
On the nightstand:
a congregation of pills,
chalky, obedient, holy in the wrong way.
I take them like I am bribing a god
who has never once kept their promises.
Water flows—
cool, indifferent—
washing down the taste of minerals and
surrender.
Hear me:
no one tells you
how intimate this becomes—
the swallowing, the waiting,
the slow surveillance or your own blood.
I have memorized the hour
when nausea arrives like a tax dollar,
when my legs begin their small betrayals,
when fatigue unbuttons me from the inside.
I plan my days like a crime.
If I eat this, I may pay later,
if I walk too far, something will bloom—
not a flower, no—
something hot and furious
unfurling behind my kidneys.
So I ration joy.
I measure hunger against consequence,
desire against aftermath.
Even fruit feels dangerous in my mouth—
too bright, too sweet,
like a lie my body will punish.
And the discipline—
God, the discipline—
it is not clean, not admirable.
It is fierce.
It is dragging myself to appointments
smelling faintly of antiseptic and dread,
offering up my veins
like evidence.
It is answering the same questions
with new bruises,
new data,
new disappointments tucked under the
tongue.
“How are you feeling?”
they ask,
As if feeling were a stable country.
As if I have not been exiled from mine.
Sometime I want to peel my body open—
lay it on the table
like a map with all the wrong borders,
say: here, here is where it burns,
here is where it forgets me,
here is where it refuses to be touched.
But instead, I nod.
I learn new instructions.
I add another pill to the constellation.
Then evening comes like a quiet collapse.
I take more—
always more—
tiny negotiations
stacked against the void.
And still, I am here.
Not strong—
do not call me strong—
I am something more desperate than that.
I am determined.
I am fluent in practice.
I am a woman who has made a ritual
out of not disappearing.
Inside me, chaos sharpens its teeth.
Inside me, I set the table anyway.
I swallow the night whole—
bitter, medicinal, unfinished—
and dare my body, once more,
to keep me.
Based in New York City, Rebekah Norris (she/her) is a burgeoning writer and lifelong creative whose work is rooted in observation and lived experiences. Her love for poetry started as an undergraduate while studying music. Working as a soprano and performing around the world, she fell in love with free-form writing between rehearsals and performances.
She returned to writing during the COVID years and has continued to deepen the practice, drawing from daily life, the political climate, and her experience as a woman living with an invisible illness. That creative current fuels everything she touches—from her salon IRON | FEATHER in SoHo, where she approaches hair color with care and intention, to her pottery wheel, her studies in alternative medicine, and her reiki work—each an extension of the same instinct to create, connect, and heal.
Instagram: @rebekahnorris_hair