“It must suck to have fibromyalgia,” says [Insert Name Here].

The sky is grey today.  I knew that before I properly woke up.  I could feel the grey grinding my bones, shaping my body into something that it wasn’t just a few hours before. Like the darkening clouds, the grey attempts to conceal my memories, blot out what I meant to today.

The grey binds itself to my feet, my arms, my head, my stomach.  I smell the grey, taste it, and touch it as I rub my limbs, my temples, my chest.  I hear it blend in with persistent beats of the hot water that pours down my back.  I see it etching whatever into the lines on my face, or perhaps that could just be an issue of age.

I cannot help but laugh–It’s a never ending competition between us, grey and me.  Grey tries its best, and so I must try even harder.

I’ll wear black today.