Dear Fibromyalgia

The sore on my tongue swelters
as the cut on my lips stings
the scab over my cheek flakes
as my legs lie resting sore,
because they are bolted into the ground;

my hands cripple over trying to yank them loose
but my joints are unbending
as the small weights I am carrying on my back
press themselves individually into
the thirty-three individual vertebrae of my spine,

which reminds me I started writing this
piece because I had something to say
but when I went to raise my voice
a blister rose instead,
lingering,

unmoving
like the eyes staring back at me
in the mirror covered in red webs.
So I decided to write what I cannot say, and that was that my hair slowly fell out today
and it reminded me of hay that falls when it’s being lifted in a bale toward the blazing,
unforgiving Sun.

Madeleine Simmons is attending the University of California, Riverside, for her B.A. in English. She shares her work within her community and posts snippets and updates on her Instagram page, @madeleineshelle. She hopes to publish her stories while feeding her four cats.

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