Weak

Last second,
I reach forward to catch my head as it succumbs to gravity.
the weight of it in my hands makes my muscles quiver with the strain.
Slouching in my chair, spine curled, pain in red lines creeping
Navigating between the tendons and the muscles and the sinews of my shoulders.
Each step I'm walking in mud

Each attempt to shake off this iron coat
does little but crack joints and glaze eyes
The weight of my empty insides
causing my walls to cave and ceiling to crash.
I am walking in quicksand

The skin beneath my gray outer layers
is detaching itself from the rest of me, in search of someplace warmer

I am walking the bottom of the sea, dragging a medicine ball from each limb