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Fatigue

Worse than the afterburn,
than sickness,
than tread-upon trachea,
than nurturers who love and support and believe
exactly fifty percent of me
is this heaviness;
not in my bones, but  
sealed over me
so that I grow bored of trying to breathe
multiple-word responses
and so the muscles twist and preen
instead of just swallowing their lactic acid
and fighting back.
 
Yes, I am sunshine,
a tired pack of rays;
the windows I shattered
once now lay opaque,
but in two more seasons

I will come of age,
shed this skin
like lead,
and skip freely
on light feet,
scarcely able to remember
a time walking caused blisters.
Written by rowantree
Published
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