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  • I hate my knees.

    They are my mother’s knees and my aunt’s knees and my grandmother’s knees. A family heirloom comprised of excessive skin that hangs over the cap like a piece of dough falling off a kitchen counter – pocked and stretched.

    When I extend my left knee it makes a creaking noise. It’s a loud, popping sound that invokes the image of my bones rubbing against one another - wearing the other down. I wear myself down.

    I don’t run anymore (or exercise in any capacity, really) – but when I did, I would come home sweated and in pain. The only way I could make myself feel better was by tucking my legs under the cushions of the couch. I don’t know if it really helped – but I did it nonetheless.

    I have scar tissue just to the right of my kneecap from a broken wine glass. It’s pink and smooth. When I touch it, my leg cannot sense my finger tip. It's a literal dead spot.

    I know one day I will crouch down on my knees to hug my child, or niece, or nephew, or overly-friendly stranger. I may even get down on one knee to propose (should I ever find someone I think would say yes). When I grow old and take up gardening, I will waddle around on my knees – growing life around my hands.

    But for now, I hate my knees.
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