She begins to bend,
and fold into a symphony
of joints and ligaments cracking—
her pelvis tilts,
the hip lifts,
her toes pop,
and elbows creak.

Arthritis brews into her hip,
hindering her appeal,
or is it frustration drilling
into the bone?

Just now leaving home— no job..
all alone, sales tax,
broken back, black bones
can’t relax—bend, break, crack.

What’s happening to me?
Nestles into her cheeks,
leaking into the space between her brows—
crinkle, wrinkle, frown,
the downs plastered
on her face.

How long until she bends again?

In so much rage
as she bends to fold scattered clothes.
Nothing matters anymore—
she’s losing breath,
curling back
into herself.

Shrinking,
growing small.
Which way is home?
Curved back
into her shell.

Hiding in plain sight

heat and ice; fire burning—shocks.
Life’s a lot for her brain

sending signals tingling down

her spine from lumbar to tarsal bones.

She’s all grown up,
but stuck in fetal position,
the safest place is
rocking into stillness,
contracting in time.

A lot is on her mind—
crime, lies, time travel.
There’s nothing to eat.
She’s losing sleep

Calculating…

How long until
She's just like her mother?

How long until
She’s cracking  open?