at 18 I feel antiquated. My hinges are rusting, hardening, settling into stagnancy. The wood of my skeleton is crumbling from the paths of termites with more tenacity than I have ever had, and I am creaking.
I am settled into rounded leather chairs, twirling yarn between chubby fingers, imagining hands too arthritic to create. Encumbered by the colossal burden of youth, I fumble with crumbling bones to outline my lips in red.