having family trouble?

this is not ink,

this is blood.
these are not tears,
I promise you,
they were not drawn from me, but of me
with a needle's precision ,
a blind woman weaving hands from words.
This is not warmth,
but a brutal,
unflinching chill
to fester in you bones
and exhale all the cracks.
I was not born whole
but built broken,
maimed,
forgotten.
I was not reared with jubilation
but with soars for eyes
and a chain link mouth.
I tasted copper against my tongue
and swallowed all my teeth
and rinsed my face clear of grime.
For once I was a beauty,
once I had a pulse and a rhythm all my own
but now
I am but a head to hold your thoughts.
I am weary and drawn
and held taut against
the searing stars. I am a man's cold reflection
to gaze upon
and to see nothing.
I am blood
and ink
and bone
and sweat
and fear
and grime
and warmth
and I am the voice to sing them back to the sky.
up
up, up,
float up and be free.

I fear more the illusion of aging than anything else; the prospect of knowing I am no longer sprightly, nor remotely fluid in my steps. Not that I ever was, but was I close?