I seem so strong
on the outside
because I’m so fragile
on my insides.
That is by design.
I fall down a set of stairs,
and I’ve fallen into a
broken state of mental depression
for 5 months of recovery. Crutch me.
I bruise as easy as
squishing Play-Doh through fingers
I am just dough and (what’s left of my) bone.
See, I’m like a kaleidoscope of osteoblasts
and calcium. I’m not quite holy,
but I’m hole-y enough where it hurts. Bad.
Where walking, moving,
kneeling, bending hurts.
Like I’ve got cactus creeping up my legs.
Like a ringing vibration in my nervous nervous system.
Like a bruised and broken soul that hasn’t found a way to heal herself.
I’m willowy, but I’m weak.
I’m slender, but I’m sick.
I’m skinny, but I’m sick and tired of breaking down like a bus with bad tires.
I’m done being chained to my
weight on the scale
and the waiting time for recovery.
I’m beyond over it,
being bare bones and barely making it out on the town alive.
I want a life of adventure
more than I want a life lived in the
same skinny jeans.
I’ll get new clothes,
but I can’t get a new body.
So, I have to patch up the holes
in the one I have.