treatswords

I extend my leg, my knee twinges.

I imagine the white tendon that crosses over my knee cap, stretching it’s fingers a little too far. I can feel it’s nails scraping my bone.

“Its just stress, you’re wearing yourself too thin.”

That’s what everyone tells me.

I am trapped in this skin. This pale, moley skin. I think as I watch my teal veins criss-cross into the bottom of my palm, my hands last attempt at keeping them safe.

I get a gym membership.

I feel the six large tendons that structure my hamstring, tug.

They tug when I move too fast, they tug when I bend too far.

With the tugging come the knots.

I watch my physical therapist explain this to me with string.

He knots two pieces of yellow cotton together.

“See, these are your tendons. Healthy tendons don’t have knots like these.”

Most nights I lie awake and imagine combing through them. A thick brush in hand, wet tissue pulling apart with each stroke.

He pushes a grafting tool over my right, inner tendon. The plastic claw trying to pull through the ligament. His hand tediously shakes, like when my grandpa used to drive over a sequence of pot holes in his old Ford, a large fountain coke in my hand, fizz spilling over.

“Try yoga, it’s good for pain.”

I tip my legs up to the moon, my arms stretch wide in front of me.

I contemplate a prayer.

A candle lit, a blue Matt. In this moment I feel whole. My skin moves, I feel the deep breath cooling my insides. Like a candle on a birthday cake.

“Blow it out, make a wish!”

The next day my rib is telling me something. The left one. I can feel the cartilage crunching, the sound of an ear getting pierced, the feeling when your teeth bite into a hard piece of chicken.

It’s telling me there is inflammation.

I imagine my rib sliding down into my abdomen. I feel it shifting about, attempting to get comfortable.

Sit down, sit down, make yourself at home.

My body is fighting me and I’m not sure why. I know my soul is withered, it’s traveled vastly. Maybe it finally found a body that it could slowwwww down with. A cozy cup of tea for it to settle into, leaving before the body turns soggy and black.

I imagine myself in thirty years. Hobbled over, knobby hands grasping for something to hold onto.

An old tree with an infection. Maybe it’s best to chop it down and count the rings.

“Who will ever love me like this?” I echo to anyone who will cup their ears and listen.

My bladder becomes stiffs, like a knee in the rain. A dull ache, a gentle nudge. Acknowledging that somethings not quite right. It feels as though it’s grown whiskers. I can feel the course hair shifting about. Lips talking frantically, bristly hair moving up and down.

“Interstitial Cystitis.”

The doctor tells me.

“I’m prescribing these.”

A depression pill used to manage pain. They are bright orange.

I search the internet for side effects.

Weight gain.

Suicidal thoughts.

Blood clots.

Possible loss of eye sight.

I toss the bottle.

I think at times it’s the anxiety that is doing this to me. The black vines began to infect the root too.

The thoughts are crippling. They are the reason I don’t leave my bed.

I wonder what it feels like to be normal. The thoughts are small, but they gather like ants. Enough of them and they leave a hole that begins to feel like home.

On the drive home from work I cry. The sun cracks like an egg through my window, warming my hand as it wipes my wet eyes. I can feel the deterioration creeping it’s way into my mind.I forget words halfway through my sentence. I pause, waiting for the word to appear with a pooooof, arriving in a cloud of smoke. It doesn’t come. I am pulling for it like a tooth that isn’t willing to come loose yet. Yanking, tearing the gums until blood squeezes out.

I try to lift weights, give my lower tendons a rest.

My right rotator cuff twinges. A pain drifts to my inner bicep, I feel the pink knots beginning to form. I slide my nail down them, letting it drag over each bump.

I imagine my arm as a birds wing. It fell from the nest and now it’s broken. A bandage may help it heal. But I feel the pain nestle, it’s cozy, it plans to stay.

What is a person called with limbs that don’t function correctly?

“Fibromyalgia.”

I hear people naming it.

“Constant pain for absolutely no reason.”

I meet a girl in Seattle with this condition. She is brunette, tall and always wears yellow.

I found her curled up in her extra large heating blanket.

“I got it from Amazon, it helps settle the pain.” Her house is littered with green plants clawing at the windows, trying to catch some sun. The blanket buries her face. The green sprouts and I watch as it swallows her whole.

“I knew someone once with Fibro. They moved to Hawaii in hopes that the warm weather would help with the pain.”

My coworker tells me.

I imagine myself on an island. Salty hair, vibrant colors, skin kept warm from the sun. My small, yellow house, suffocating itself in the heat. The rooms wet from humidity.

I toss my bright clothes into my laundry bin. I curl up in bed, where I sleep alone.

“She vanished and went to Hawaii. No ones heard from her since”

They would say.

My toes curling in and out of sand, water cooling my heals.

My mother would want to come, but I couldn’t let her. I need to wash up somewhere new alone.

“What’s that washing up on shore?!”

They would shout.

A petite, blonde wrapped in an XL heating blanket, nerve endings fried. Her body like a string of Christmas lights, one bulb goes out and they all go black.

Maybe they would scoop me up, take me in as their own.

My body may be aching and riddled in pain, but there is still a part of my mind that can create. It continues to spark something yellow.

Maybe they would treat me tenderly, or maybe they would cut and take the only green sprout left, discarding the rest of me.

Black ravens pecking at what is left of the healthy muscles on my ribcage.

Leaving the inflamed bits for the fish.