I am the hand that holds my future. I’ve never gripped it tightly. Dropped it more than a few times. How will age change me? Will arthritic hands wish to grasp that which I never cared to hold, but lack the strength? Or will my hand remain open, offering my future to any passing whim?
I’m crying inside where no one can hear but me. My voice is always tinged with it if you listen close enough. My legs are strong because the tears become heavy after a lifetime of crying. Perhaps I should let them out more.
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