documenting disintegration • 02.22.2023

take a photo every time it starts to hurt. see if you can't pinpoint the exact moment it all started to disappear.

it starts in my ankle. right side. always the right side. it crawls up my calf and into my knee, lodging itself in the cap. it finds my thigh and begins to buzz. soon, my entire leg is on fire.

i change out of my jeans, freeing my aching legs from the compression of tight denim. my muscles breathe a beat before letting out a bone shattering cry. 

this is only a welcome distraction from the sinking realization i had earlier, sitting at the kitchen table with my father, asking him to demonstrate his strength so i could see what "healthy" looked like. 

he asks me if i can individually lift my fingers from a resting position on the table, picking up on my internal investigations. my right side remains still. my left sees a centimeter and some change off the table. he holds my wrists the way the doctors used to, feeling for the muscle that isn't there anymore.

"can you still type?"

"yeah."

they always told me "use it or lose it."

what they didn't tell me is that i'd end up losing it all regardless of what i did or didn't do.