at the top of my throat, like along the wet squish of my soft palate and straight down the tunnel of my esophagus is panging. i must have cancer.

i cant move anymore without some muscle straining too hard, some ligament squealing in protest. i've become this rusty machine chugging along. my hinges are creaky, i am composed of twirling wheels and sprockets and springs, like a clock inside. i need you to wind me up. i need a little push every once in a while. and surprisingly, i'm being pushed along really well. I am so grateful for that.
thank you, not letting me fall to hard against the rocks.
and thank you, for listening to my dreams and falling asleep to the whir of the fan.
and thank you too, for helping even though i make it about me sometimes, even when i'm supposed to be the security blanket.

thank you all.