My shoulders widen: they broaden, outstretch the backs of your valleys. My fingers lengthen, my legs grow heftier. They expand, they grow; taking up too much space in this room. You wince at my cigarette smoke. It’s a grey mistress dancing seductively, swaying in the unclean air to her own mindless rhythm. She smears grey ash on all her enthralled onlookers; they wait (with polluted breath) for just one chance to dance with her, to sway to her destructive spins.
I can outrun you now. My legs have been made stronger by technological advances and traversing the near insurmountable task of space. I run wild on the playground of galaxies, conquering planet after planet, pinning my maps, and spreading the seeds of my progress.
I am strong now. I’ve grown from a measly tiny fish, then walked on all fours. I finally climbed trees and then, then I discovered science. I’ve learned so much, yet there is so much more to learn, to do.
I thought I would be able to carry you now. I thought I could put my hardened palms in the cups of your porcelain pits. I figured I could lift you up like a rag doll. You, being weakened and eroded by the rivers of age and hard work.
But, my shoulders are too broad now and my fingers are too lengthy. My legs are too hefty and the grey mistress weighs down on my lungs now—skirting through my veins, darkening my green with her grey streaks.
I can’t stop growing now: my shoulders, my legs, my fingers all too large now. Space has no room for me, you have run out of patience for me and I am running,
running out of time.
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