You stare at your sad sagging arms
and wonder
where the atrophied parts have gone
and how to coax them back.
An exhale
and the gut sinks full
over your belt. This mirror
is pathetic. And warped,
probably.
After all these aching mornings,
all these unopened calendars
and notebooks dripping with regret,
after all these years of challenges
you still look like a child
flexing in the mirror.
Dukes up, chin out.
Absurd that play and hand grenades
would sleep so close.
A child isn't meant to fight,
and neither are you.
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