"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

momentary wallowing

My shot leaves my body pockmarked and scarred.  Painfully dimpled and raised flesh.  Yearning to be scratched.  Deep scar tissue and bruises.  Yearning to be covered.

Yet I am so lucky.  I can still stand in front of the mirror to view my damaged flesh with eyes that still can see.  I can still verbalized my discontent.

I have insurance to pay for the medications that costs twice what I make in a month.  Medications that will keep me standing and talking and fighting.

There may come a day when these things are no longer possible.  Not on my watch.

Aut vincere aut mori.


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