77
Blinded in Plain Sight Payton Oliver
It growls, it grumbles, it groans as if channeling an incessant desire for the unruly inside of me. It wishes and it washes. It flops, it fizzles, it flares to warn me of the impending domination of just one small portion on the rest of my day-so much so that I’m hesitant to accept any sort of possible imposter into the weak contents that form the function of my nourishment, although it is failing to do so as required by a man of my stature. With a height associated exclusively with the beasts of our time and a weight reserved solely for those that willingly throw it around, I had the two greatest standards of physique...each slowly being taken from the very bones on which I, myself, grew. Distinct grooves defining the isolated borders of muscles once conjoined to outline a profile that most men could only fancy, but never have for themselves. I was the proud owner of the Cadillac, or perhaps muscle car, of all frames. As the days passed, the position that once allowed me to tower over those below, began to crumble. Calves formerly as strong as the cement on which they ran softened to that of a toddler’s. Shoulders always ensuring straight posture found a new permanent angle, too hunched to display my enviable figure. Glutes no longer hefty enough to hold a bridge higher than an inch off of the creaky cabin’s wooden slats. After consulting mystics and apothecaries, witchdoctors found by word of mouth, and so-called miracle workers to stop or, at the very least, slow down the constant shedding of fat and
