Atrophy

[Atrophy]

the problem is no one tosses their keys anymore. an act of permission. tell me with your muscles that i’m allowed to start the engine. let the metal make music as it collides with my palm. no one tosses their keys anymore and that’s what’s fucking wrong.

the problem is i never have to break a sweat. i miss rolling down the window of my dad’s red pickup. 1996. two hands, no callouses. just an old rusty crank. under my breath, cursing my father’s name. but i fought like hell for it. i earned every inch of that breeze. 7 years old, indebted to elbow grease.

the problem is i’m not emotionally invested in my $8 cup of hot caffeine. sure i’m awake, but i’m ten steps removed from the work. from the dirt. except, can i say this? i like the mess i make of the grounds as i fumble around still half asleep. i pretend those little ants on my counter top are of no use to me. i toss them away. i feel sorry for the waste. But the bigger the mess, the harder the work, the better it tastes.

the problem is that i don’t know what anyone’s handwriting looks like anymore.

the problem is i want to smoke, but i can’t be bothered with burning flames.
the problem is that a group chat is only taking up my digital space.
the problem is all the shortcuts are making my muscle memory obsolete.
the problem is that i’m venting to strangers again
through
a
screen.

the problem
is that the only thing I can be bothered to wash by hand
is my own fucking skin
and i’ve still found ways
to make a habit
of rushing through all of it.

don’t make things easier on yourself.
until next time. -cd