Untitled (2015-02-02)

Today is the kind of day in which you feel your age. The muscles of your back are sore and your spine feels too rigid. There’s a pressure in your knees, like swollen overripe peaches about to burst. Your wrists do not creak so much as they shriek their resistance.

Your gums ache with the memory of teeth, real teeth, which you could tear and cut and grind. Biting and chewing was once so easy for you, such a pleasure you once took for granted and now miss so keenly when you prepare your breakfast.

Your throat convulses and you try not to choke on all the pills you are forced to swallow down. It seems like everyday they multiply, you imagine sometimes as you struggle to sleep, that you can hear them rattling in their bottles.

The spots and scars that decorate your thin fragile skin, create a more interesting landscape than your bland tiny home. There is the lake of your birthmark, one which your mother had always said was an angel’s kiss but which the kids on the playground mocked you for. It’s how you got the mountain range of scar tissue on your right arm, they had to change the fence all around the school.

The luxurious locks of hair which made you the envy of your siblings are bleached and thinned and so wispy you can’t help but think of the cigarettes you used to sneak out of your teacher’s desk. How the smoke dissipated in swirling clouds out the bathroom window. You wear glasses now, so thick that you could use it to start a fire like you learned from your cousin during family camping trips.

Some of them are dead, but some of them are alive. You wonder how they are. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them. You know Cassidy Jones regret making fun of you as soon as you kicked him, but did he ever regret it for the right reasons? Did he ever consider that maybe the two of you might have been friends, had it not been for that?

You think about your siblings. Of the ones you’ve kept in contact with as best as your arthritic fingers and deteriorated hearing can handle. Of the ones you can’t anymore. You think of your cousin, who had died decades ago in a literal blaze of glory, rescuing idiots from fires with determination in her heart. You don’t have much of that anymore. Vitality is not just in the body, and it’s a substance that dwindles. It has been a long life–you have done much with it, and it has left it’s mark on you.


A/N: A melancholic piece.

Also, I write a lot more Second POV than I thought I would? Like… it’s not really my favorite form to read either, so I don’t know where this is coming from… But I also kind of like how it’s non-gender specific.

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