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when I was thirteen I thought I was dying strangers looked the other way when they saw me bend under the weight of my stillborn bones my specialist a man in his mid-twenties sat with me in the exam room uncomfortable with my willingness to give up while I got poked with needles and squeezed the doctor's hand so he could see how strong I wasn't my mother sat in the waiting room I went home to alone my only friends a group of african violets on a rusty tv tray stand in front of a bedroom window I watered them when I couldn't bend my wrists I placed them in slants of sunlight when I was too weak to get out of bed in a year I would be like all the other girls laughing and smiling while some boy pretended at loving me I would miss those nights alone struggling with my affliction dabbling in death's whispers spoon-feeding pain to the moon with only my cat as a companion the violets went unwatered while I bathed in boys and sunlight their purple petals turned brown all those yesterdays so easily tucked away when I still had the faith of more tomorrows
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AuthorMichelle Tinklepaugh Archives
April 2023
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