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
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