It was hard to watch,
to know I could have been
something more than I am.

It was hard to look at,
to know instinctively
that my worth had been judged,
carved into time
half a century prior,

and I had not examined it
for flaws,
merely accepted it as it was.
I became the thing
I feared and hated,
because it was the thing
I knew.

Year by year,
inch by inch,
comfort is killing me.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.