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Description

Bones don’t grow overnight, the way a soul does.
You wake up one morning and find that your skin’s stretched tight across your body like the head of a drum and your ribs are really just chicken ribs from down the street and God, you can’t breathe even if you wanted to (and you don’t really, but you’ll miss that cold air once you’re six feet under, drowning in your own hot stench).

Everything feels too tight, then. Veins shrunk down to thimble-threads, carrying whatever you got out of your chicken rib breaths away into your air-starved brain at a decent crawl. The platelets are too big, you can feel them slithering down your arms, in your neck, across your back, like fat, phlegmatic slugs sliding between thin walls of muscle.

Look down at the toes peeping out from under your pant legs. Are they yours? Wiggle them. I don’t think they are. I can’t feel them. They’re not mine. Someone switched them around while I was sleeping. Look at that one—it doesn’t even match the rest. These aren’t my toes but they’ll have to do; they’d better be marathon feet because I’m breaking out tomorrow and I wouldn’t trust my own feet to carry me anyway.

Description

Bones don’t grow overnight, the way a soul does.
You wake up one morning and find that your skin’s stretched tight across your body like the head of a drum and your ribs are really just chicken ribs from down the street and God, you can’t breathe even if you wanted to (and you don’t really, but you’ll miss that cold air once you’re six feet under, drowning in your own hot stench).

Everything feels too tight, then. Veins shrunk down to thimble-threads, carrying whatever you got out of your chicken rib breaths away into your air-starved brain at a decent crawl. The platelets are too big, you can feel them slithering down your arms, in your neck, across your back, like fat, phlegmatic slugs sliding between thin walls of muscle.

Look down at the toes peeping out from under your pant legs. Are they yours? Wiggle them. I don’t think they are. I can’t feel them. They’re not mine. Someone switched them around while I was sleeping. Look at that one—it doesn’t even match the rest. These aren’t my toes but they’ll have to do; they’d better be marathon feet because I’m breaking out tomorrow and I wouldn’t trust my own feet to carry me anyway.