My past does not show in my hair
As artfully-placed streaks of white
(...at least not yet, maybe give it a few years.)
My scars mark not a single dramatic moment,
But years of self gradually corroding away self.
They call chronic conditions "invisible",
But even that feels too dramatic a word
For simply compounded misfortune.
I am a pawn of no dread power but history.
I crackle not with unearthly energy, but merely context.
Even the end of the world itself is one
Not of the eldritch, but of ennui.
"May you live in interesting times," runs the curse,
But time dulled and suffocated under the murk
Long before I had a chance at a plot.
There is no catharsis in Chinese water torture.
Pick a side, damn it--
--either crash and burn wholesale,
or settle for functional and well-adjusted--
--all anyone ever gets from between them is dissatisfaction.