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,
set,
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.
