Jessica Gleason

Posted: February 16, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

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?

 

 

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