and when i get to the eyes,
they beseech me, 'don't do this'
but i still force myself to breathe
and raise the pencil
and outline edges of gripping fingers
with soft graphite,
the tip melting into the page.
i am a poet
(not a very good one at that)
the words don't bend for me like they used to
no, i feel like i'm getting old.
old in the way that isn't due to years of life,
but to the aching, creaking of my body,
the overall wear-and-tear.
after so much time spent
staying up with eyes that feel as though they're pried open,
these insomniatic tendencies
are overwhelming in their sleeplessness
as i wander and check the locks at night
and then get up extra early in the morning.
i don't eat properly sometimes,
but my body used to shrug it off -
i made it.
i forced it to act more like a machine
and so it responded in kind.
i don't know how i feel
about the fact that i've battered
and pushed my own body beyond boundaries enough
that it has shoved me out of the way
and assumed the controls,
making me tired
and inducing cramps
this is not what it's supposed to feel like
as a teenager.
i'm used to the black edges
of depression curling in,
tendrils dragging their slimy tips
across my face,
leaving sticky sad residue behind.
this is an old woman's body
with all the cracks and pains.
i guess i'm out of time.
and this time,
i might be too broken
for anyone to fix.