My desperate bones attempt to deceive my body.

They move in ways their maker did not intend;

in ways the holder cannot handle. 

A false disposition is conveyed;

a mediocre attempt at normalcy.

I am tortured,

tormented,

taunted

by what I am not. 

Inadequacy courses through my veins,

pumping my heart,

driving my life. 

Never will these bones be good enough,

not with their skin,

nor their imperfections. 

Tired. 

I have grown weary of the facade.