Some mornings,
when the world feels too heavy,
I like to fold it down into something small.
The car radio, just static.
My phone on silent, screen dark.
The sky a low ceiling, but mine to lift.
Today, I eat breakfast on the floor,
toes curling into the cool tile,
the cereal box sitting beside me like a guest.
I take my time with the crunch,
the milk rising like fog around my spoon,
and I think—yes—this too is a rebellion.
Outside, engines growl,
and my neighbor yells at his dog again.
But here, where I am no one’s answer,
I chew slowly, holding each bite
like a small, stubborn truth,
swallowing each mouthful as if to say:
I’m here, and I’ve chosen to stay.