my body is made of rusted iron and heavy shattered rocks. 

my right ankle is a half rotten turnip

my skin throbs

my muscles moan like elder trees in the wind 



my head curls in on itself
a half realized defensive posture. 

i dont have the energy to cry

cold, dry, despair rolls down my cheeks

whispering its sweet sweet nothings 

desperation reframed 

for more empathetic consumption

innocuous smile and always gracious 



the yard stick my dignity is measured by 

right to thrive hammered out in meandering prose and brief spurts of productivity 

whatever that means

im to tired to even guess 


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