My tongue was swelling from my poor decisions,
my eyes were greying where they had always been blue,
my chin was dimpled where it had always been smooth,
my forehead was creased like a napkin,
and not a nice one
My neck was the bad kind of round,
with rings like a tree,
my feet were swollen like jelly beans,
tingly,
then numb from their changing shape
my fingers were not the piano fingers they once were,
they, too, were rounding and creasing, and forming rings of their own,
and one day,
all these warning signs,
all these things they say were only items of paranoia,
one day,
these would be good and tangible,
and true,
and you would look at me with distaste,
with disgust,
and then you would look right through me,
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