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Broken (2)
by Angela Thomas
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 to add more hot
water for me. I don't have the strength
or the grip for the handle,
like I used to. Last month, I tried to get out
of the tub. I was surprised 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. She sent me thinking,
maybe I would break again. Now, my sister,
Angela, sits on the toilet, reading, while I melt
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, Angela would throw a small
towel into the tub, and, soaking, I would wrap
myself up. Then, with two stong arms like a forklift,
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 too much pressure
under her arms. But the nurses, they said that
I was made of glass...
She bit her lip, thinking, and said, were all
made of glass, the only difference
is, your breaks send you to the hospital.
02/24/2004 Author's Note: revision
Posted on 02/24/2004
Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas
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