There was a numbness in my right finger,
the kind of numbness that swiftly turns to pain,
things were gnawing on my bones,
chipping away at the facade,
and slowly but surely inking more and more of these unfortunate fissures of mine,
the doctor said I had become obsessed with aging,
that I was no longer the agist I was in my formative years,
he said I had a keen eye for minutia,
and that if I was not careful,
it would be the end of me,
these pills were not working the way they said they would,
they were supposed to distract me,
but it seems the mirror undoes half the work they put in at night while I am getting my beauty sleep,
if that is what we are still calling it,
this was gerontophobia,
I knew it,
and they would write papers about me,
and tell medical neophytes that I had an intense distaste for the elderly,
and this simply was not true,
but I began to vomit at the smell from that home,
and they would put me there one day soon,
if I let all this get the best of me,
I stopped believing in eternal youth when I was a child,
until a Tuesday,
when I first saw the pock marks on a woman's hand in the grocery store,
and more importantly,
when I saw my mother die behind the wheel on the way home from said store,
she was too old for someone,
I suppose
It seemed no one was exempt,
not from expiry,
so I tried long and hard to avoid the crow's feet,
and prolong a bleeding and murky sunset forming on the horizon
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