age

My thin little soldiers, don’t give up, I urge, talking to the dead protein protruding from my own body. But another one has, shiny brown faded to dull white. Where everything else is a subtle amalgamation, a softening and blurring, hard to point out and easier to deny, this tiny strand lays against its darker brethren like an undeniable giant of the the relentless progression of time. His repayment for truth is to be ripped from the root, so that I may return, briefly, to the delusions of my youth. It is a temporary respite, until it stubbornly grows back, or another one gives up the battle of its pigment cells, small deaths that loom in years.