Comfort

It was hard to watch,
to know I could have been
something more than I am.

It was hard to look at,
to know instinctively
that my worth had been judged,
set,
carved into time
half a century prior,

and I had not examined it
for flaws,
merely accepted it as it was.
I became the thing
I feared and hated,
because it was the thing
I knew.

Year by year,
inch by inch,
comfort is killing me.

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