Aging is a Word that Means 'Slowly Becoming a Machine'

The bone parts of me talk to the metal parts,

groaning, which is the language of bone.

They tell the metal parts hurting isn’t that hard,

which is a lie. The body tells the truth

by hurting. I lie to myself. If I can’t get out of bed,

I don’t say, I need a doctor. I say, I’m broken.

Or I say, Maybe I need an update—I’m slow. A liar.

Or I say, Age is just a number. There are wires

curling like calligraphy on pages unraveling under my ribs

in a language no one can read, and that’s why

I can’t remember how grass feels. That’s why

when I look at the clouds, I don’t imagine

more equitable shapes. Instead I

cast a storm of equations into them and say,

We can’t go out today, it might rain.

Then it does rain, and I’m afraid my silver hair

will rust. One of my eyes is not one of my eyes.

One of my ears needs charging. My heart

is out of rhythm again. My heart

is an algorithm. I never wasn’t full of tubes,

full of changing data day to day while I tried

not to break. The older I get the more I see

how poorly made I am. I lie awake

trying to ignore the way my body’s circuitry

changes shape, trying to prove to those

who love me I’m worthy of love by saying

the kinds of things only a machine would say

so they won’t see, inside me, the machine

I’m more and more ashamed to be

and wish I could turn off.