The weight of my feet poem

I wrote this today, maybe some of you will relate The Weight of My Feet I have this dis-ease in my body, my feet peel and peel, shedding like a tree in autumn— but never finding spring. It has disabled me— not that the world sees it. A hidden disability, one even PIP won’t validate. I limp through life, some days I don’t walk at all. Feet burning, flesh raw— like walking on hot coals, except the fire never fades. People ask, "Why are you limping?" I make up excuses. How do I tell them my feet are a battlefield, a war of skin against itself? "Psoriasis? Just on your feet?" "Maybe it's athlete’s foot." They step back, cautious, as if I’m a walking fungus, as if I might spread my suffering to them. "Let's go to the beach." Let’s not—I can’t wear trainers there. "Let’s go on holiday!" Let’s not—I can’t bear to be seen. "Mum, come play outside with me." I can’t, I say. "Oh yeah... your feet." Their words cut deeper than the cracks in my skin. How can my own body betray me like this? A cruel, absurd disease— one I must keep silent, lest they think I’m unclean. In biblical times, Jesus healed the leper. I have prayed, endlessly, waiting for Him to do the same. But the miracle has not come. I spent my life savings chasing hope— holistic promises, cures wrapped in gold. They took my money, while I limped away. Doctors offer no hope. "There is no cure." "You'll live with this forever." Forever? I whisper through tears. My husband is sympathetic, but how long before sympathy turns to resentment? Before the weight of my suffering becomes too much to bear? I beg my children to do a chore— not out of laziness, but to spare myself the fire of one more painful step. I cry daily. I suffer in silence. Trapped in a body that betrays me. Fed up with waiting for a cure, fed up with being a burden, fed up with a life that ended at 30.