A tear escapes
from me,
as I prepare for my race.

It rolls down
because the hurdles
mock me
with their perfection.

They stand confident,
daring me to clear them.
It seems that they cheer
for me to fail.

I sprint
towards my first tormenter.
I accept his dare;
I will not give him
my failure.

I fly over another bully
and feel lighter;
less sadness
weighs me down.

My feet hit the track
after the last one
is defeated.

I collapse at the finish,
my face glazed
with salty water.

The others wonder
why I cry
after a great race.
They don’t understand.

It has nothing
to do with the hurdles,
but everything
to do with conquering
what they symbolize.