The symbolism of a turtleneck as the chokehold the people in my life have me in.
There are stories to be told of the curve that runs from the base of the neck to the shoulders. Mine is tough to the touch, from the hours of being stationed in front of a computer.
But you wouldn’t know that. I could have been studying for an exam. Or pursuing a much more pleasurable pastime of reading, back against a propped-up pillow, late into the night.
I could have been praying.
Perhaps, there is no lump. Just bruises. Pink and maroon, proprietary marks, tender to the touch. The lovely sort.
I will have to settle for hardened flesh for now.