Locked Up.

Locked up. What a loaded phrase. Yesterday, a city burned. Tomorrow, who knows.

Today? Well, today my body burns as well.

From a high vantage point, I used to believe I had magic powers. I was going to change the world. And then.

And then.

And then, the world took me down a notch or seventy.

I’m not old, no. I’m young. I’m supposed to be young, and healthy, and strong, and free.

But I’m not. I’m broken. Trapped in body unfit for rebellion. Everything I do takes extra strength, effort, willpower.

Others around me are more locked away than I will ever be, so it’s selfish to feel like I have any right to complain. I am not oppressed. I am not murdered. I am not beaten. I am only sick.

I went from young and excited, an up and comer in the world, to bedridden and nearly dead in just a few short years. My body hosted a revolution the likes of which I never imagined possible. But it isn’t cancer.

That’s what people remind me. Locked up in my pain, my fatigue, my pure exhaustion. It isn’t cancer.

Like that’s a birthday present. I should be grateful I’m dying slowly instead of suddenly.

Except.

I’m grateful for many things. Just not this eternal feeling of being locked up.