Old young bones

I’m tired. Tired and old in these young bones, it’s both unfeminine and uncouth. How dare I feel so weary when I’ve lived so few years, it’s how I’m made to feel. Stretching and straining for every motion, rounding every vowel, exaggerating every syllable with tongue contortion to be heard and seen wholly. For when I speak with heart and ease I am nothing but dust swept beneath humanities rug weaved of immorality and deception.

I mean to be honest in every facet of life but it’s simply not that simple. It’s so disheartening that lies smother the surface of this planet and suffocate the purity of the world. It’s like a great blanket of green algae. It’s inconceivably thick and impenetrable, absorbing all the good. The only way to hear truth is to find someone beneath that sea of sludge and hold them close enough to share oxygen, speak in whispers, giggle and float hand in hand, like a pair of otters, over the currents pulling and pushing this nuclear ocean.

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