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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.

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