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Once taken
I don’t have a spine
How do I walk?
It’s missing
I know it
I’m empty
My body becomes limp
Legs buckle
I begin to stumble
I don’t have a backbone
How do I stand?
He took it
I know it
He took it over time
I shrink
My head lags
Drops forward
It hangs
Vertebrae detaches
How do I speak?
A silenced voice
I think
I am a pile
A heap of muscle and bone
Unpurposed, unseen
I drag along the dust, the dirt
I drag along this road alone
until I pause
until I stop
until I cannot move
I call out with mute tongue
I reach out with flaccid arms
I struggle with my lifeless body
How long the struggle?
I’m tired. Too tired.
How long the endless plight?
Then, the decree to survive
It has to be
So
I drag along the dust, the dirt
I drag along this road alone
until I pause
until I stop
until I cannot move
All that is left is a pile
A heap of muscle and bone
Unpurposed
Unknown
Nazhah Khawaja
Nazhah is Women Editor for THE DEMUREIST and is a Zumba Dance Fitness Instructor. Nazhah is a mother of two creative minds. After receiving a business degree from DePaul, she spent a couple years living and teaching overseas in an underdeveloped country.