This battle sounds quiet to you, but it screams at me.
It feels soft to you, but it scrapes me raw.
It seems cool to you, but it burns me – leaving messy scars on tender flesh, excruciating to the touch.
But at the end of the day, this is my battle – not yours.
I fight the screams and the scrapes, the burns and the tears – praying that maybe this battle will make me stronger.
And as the fire of war rages within, so does a tiny spark of hope.