The Problem With My Thighs

The problem with my thighs is that I’ve got a problem with my thighs.  They’re not used to this dependence I’ve put on them.  Hold me up.  Don’t wobble and most certainly don’t stretch your skin out to fit around your flesh.  Spiderweb knees are not allowed.  They’ve grown accustom to braces made of your bones but you chipped yourself free and fled.  I fell.  Again.  My thighs are hungry.  My thighs are constricted in a black nylon cocoon.  They stay pale.  They touch one another for warmth.  They’re prickled with two weeks of sadness.  My thighs are alone, together.  I don’t speak to them.  There’s no use.  They never listen to my demands, anyway.