Will is Weak

In a fog I realize:
My curvaceous body has gone
straight linear on me.
Sharp angles protrude
where once I was so soft.

My will is weak.
My head aches.
My feet complain at every step.
My stomach churns.

All of this:
and yet...

My will is a scrawny-armed teenage
pussy.

I do nothing to fix the wrongs.
The pain reminds me of:
the work I must do,
the things I must see,
the fleeting emotions I want
to catch like butterflies in a net.

I'm beginning to appreciate right angles:
Switchblade shoulders,
Glinting sharp hipbones.

I feel the burn to better myself:
take an art class,
do community service,
sleep around.

I cannot subside the ache.
So unsettling.
Cannot run.

Instead,
I have to embrace
this strange fog of sharp angles.