I came down to the floor with a lie

I came down to the floor with a lie,

told myself it was temporary, young,

a choice I'd made when the real bed was done

and my back asked why.

The mattress sits on concrete,

the gap between wall and frame fills with dust,

and my spine is a translator of must—

how long can broken become complete?

Three years now. The dust doesn't shift.

The gap stays dark, a small wound.

My body aches with the understood:

this is permanent, this is the gift.

I saw a rental listing last night—

the same setup, the same floor,

and something in me knew:

I'm starting to stop fighting.