What Condition, My Condition

My fingers ached badly, very badly
and there was dried blood under six of my nails,
and dirt lodged comfortably in all my crevices,
but I hated that word 'crevice,'
almost as much as I hated that you taught it to me,
and underneath my toenails,
there were bruises from these shitty shoes,
but you kept telling me that my body was a temple,
and it was not,
it just was not,
it was a fucking shanty,
and if you would just call a spade a spade,
or learn that there was never a full deck when it came to this conversation,
all this disappointment in my resilience,
or lack thereof,
would be expected,
and then it would no longer be disappointment,
at least not predetermined,
my funny bone got to be,
well,
not so funny anymore,
banged up a bit, I suppose,
but it was my suppositions that put me in this condition,
and my eyeballs were leasing this condemned tenement of mine,
just buying time and space in these sinkholes,
but my fingers,
they used to be about little piggies and such,
and now they were in chronic pain,
interminable fatigue,
and now I wonder,
wonder whether all of this is just up here in my head