Remembral
Five years ago,
I wrote about
aging.
In my late-twenties,
I struggled with
being rounded,
all soft corners
instead
of sharp edges.
Peddling my
woe is me
poems across the web.
In re-visiting
those words,
now in my
thirties
I long for
that
roundness
that
I hated
so
so
much.
Now, while still rounded,
I’ve started seeing
cracks in my
surface.
Skin
splitting where
once it was
a smooth
placid
slate covering
my muscles
and
bones.
Things sink
into
these new
cracks.
Food.
Specks.
Crumbs.
Makeup.
Those of us
without
disposable thousands
watch
as time
deteriorates
our
outer
shell.
I am
vein.
We are all
to some
degree
vapid.
But, beyond that,
my insides
are starting
to rot.
Five years ago, I had
most of my
organs.
Today,
I do
not.
They move, shuffle around,
inside of
my body.
They stop
functioning
as they were
intended
to do.
Surgeons with
sharp instruments
cut them
out and
study them
to see
what
went
wrong.
There is a dent,
a cavity,
in my torso.
It once held
an organ
that I will
never hold
again.
I cannot eat
what I want.
I cannot sleep
how I like.
I take pills
each
night
before
bed. They help,
but they do not
fix.
They do not
restore.
They simply
placate my body
for the
better
portion
of a
day.
And,
I wonder.
In five more
years,
will I think
this is
whiney?
Will I
be
empty?
