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Broken
by Angela ThomasSo, I'm fifteen,
and I only weigh 70
pounds. I must look
like a walking, excuse
me, rolling, skeleton.
Every morning, in
Florida's warm winters,
I have to be carried,
in the fetal position
I'm frozen in, and
placed gently in a
warm bath. My bones
are brittle and my skin
looks like white
cheesecloth stretched
tightly over my veins
and joints. Every ten
minutes, my family
comes into the room,
they add more hot water
for me. I don't have
the strength or the grip
for the handle like
I used to.
One day, I tried to get
out of the tub. The scent
of orange always woke me
up, only that shampoo
was away in a cabinet.
I was surpised no one
heard me fall, the bones
snapping like a zipper
coming undone. At the
hospital, the nurses
were afraid to handle me.
One whispered, he looks
like a corpse, don't touch
him, he'll break.
It sent me thinking,
maybe I would break again.
Now, my sister would sit
on the toilet reading while
I melted the ice between my
bones in the hot water.
My mother had to buy a dark
blue curtain, I was
maturing, it wasn't proper
to see me naked. After
some time, she
would throw a small
towel into the tub,
and, soaking, I would
wrap myself up. Then,
without a thought, she
would scoop me up, down
the hall, and drop me
on my bed. That was the
part that scared me.
Stop! I'm going to break!
You'll hurt me! She
would smile. Steve,
you're fine. Don't worry.
Her hug felt reassuring
and frightening all at
once, there was so much
pressure under her force.
But the nurses, they said
that I was made of glass...
She bit her lip, thinking,
and said, We are all made
of glass, the only
difference is, your breaks
send you to the hospital. 02/02/2004 Author's Note: For my brother Stephen, who's strength lies not in his legs, but in his heart.
Posted on 02/02/2004
Copyright © 2025 Angela Thomas
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