Lament to a Working Body
Did you ever really exist? I’ll probably never know.
Was there a time before this? Could I ever keep up with the others?
Ever exist without feeling like I’m going to collapse from exhaustion at eleven in the morning?
A time where I could run and play with others my age. When everything was still bright and new
When pain and frustration didn’t influence my every moment.
I try to move on, accept my reality, but no one should feel like they need to grieve this.
A grief I can’t fully process for a whole host of reasons, but mostly because
I don’t think you ever truly existed.
Why couldn’t you have just stayed, or at least the illusion you existed in the first place.
Maybe I’d be a little more accepting of your reality, if you weren’t still a mystery to me.
If the future wasn’t always shrouded in questions.