An Inflammatory Condition

Hours nibble at a back strain. Tenuous strings were pulled lifting water bottles. You wonder how weak and fragile you are. How vulnerable to these ancient red tides within that can bend your iron like plasticine, turn you into a crooked question mark. The body is quartered by straining horses, a torture of disruption condemning the spine to the wrenching rack. After the sudden blind attack sharp incisions tear apart and spasm, keep you shuffling into dark corners where ghosts groan over their twisted bones. Crab-walking time whittles away at your shrunken being. You feel as if you are bottled by water, a sloshing on a rocking skateboard, wakes crash - splashes of awareness witnessing a sudden fragility, the awkward creaking of your soul being stretched too taut on its desiccated elastic band.