I should have been born a bear.

The doctor says POTS, a name for my plight.

A rhythm unsteady, a body that sways,

But I feel it’s more, in mysterious ways.

He calls it a syndrome, a physical threat,

But something far deeper pulls at my chest.

Not only the vessels, the nerves, or the vein,

But a soul that’s been aching, a spirit in pain.

For science can measure the pulse and the beat,

But not the soft tremors where spirit and heart meet.

This wound is unseen, yet it burns just the same,

A whisper of sorrow without any name.

So while they treat symptoms, the numbers, the chart,

I’ll wander within, to the map of my heart.

For healing is layered — the body, the soul —

And only through both can I truly be whole.

Maybe this pain is a holy unrest,

A calling disguised as weight on my chest.

And maybe I’m breaking, not just to fall—

I hate to admit I still care about you

And it's been a long time since I've heard you speak…..

I still feel you here in my skin and my bones

Yeah, some parts of you follow wherever I go……

My voice and my body, my heart and my soul

Something about them can't seem to let go