Quiet to Questions

My hands are small but they’re stretched wide
Like a spider’s net and
They’re trembling like tissue paper
So I don’t notice your stares

No, you can’t know what’s wrong with me
It would take years to explain and honestly
I feel way too old

To compromise.
I could use the word atrophy
But that’s such a vague word
For such an old friend.

For now, why don’t you
Leave me and my friend Atrophy be
This crip girl
Prefers the quiet to questions.