indeterminate-9

My skin was smooth and young, it was flawless. My skin is crumpled tracing paper. It crinkles in tiny folds, and every puncture it has suffered has left its mark. It does not protest against gravity, and it droops, abandoned by its youthfulness. My skin is old. My hands were smooth and young, they were beautiful. My hands were once things of beauty. My nails, still trimmed and clean, are a tribute to elegance that has long abandoned me. When I write, there is a weariness in my fingers and a pain in my joints that force me to write in slow, deliberate strokes. My hands are old. My voice was smooth and young, it was so pretty. My voice s