during which i watch tiktoks of able
bodied people. expectedly
even in the happier dreams i have
i’m still disabled. phooey. a high
pitched oboe between vertebrae. locust
pose, boat coasting untroubled
waters. he asks when i started
demonstrating symptoms, i say
achilles has always been dead
to me. miscommunication
is revisited, half my shoulders roll
over into next year. we wouldn’t be
friends even if i were a normal
person. so what. i’m a poster
girl of some kind of health. which
must mean i’m some
what innocent. there’s a fault
in most fractures, tectonics. it must be
a ploy, i think, for him to prescribe good
luck. i must need it, or something better.