My neck creaks and pops as I slowly make circles

My body reminds me of the past

And how little I have moved lately

As I hug my knees into my chest

I am reminded that that injury has never healed

Not that one

But the other one

Or maybe neither

The scar tissue webbing across my hips

And back

Reaching up into my neck

And into my pelvis

I can hear the intermittent fire alarm from the bottom

Of the stairs

It weaves in and out of the music

In and out of my breath

I hear the alarm every Tuesday when I leave therapy

Near where the candy machine is

It greets me and 

Says farewell

Tempting me with nostalgia and germs

A quarter will give you a handful of unwrapped

M&Ms or Skittles or a Gumball

The brick walls and heated space

The deep breaths

Juicy movements

Reminding me of where I began my healing

In a basement at 15.

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