The road was endless—my sneakers glued to cumbersome pebbles, tumbling down the hill
as a vast washing machine. I yanked my shorts—
stuck to the soft, pale insides of my legs, quivering like
aged, purple, fingers who scream to be held. I screamed—
not metaphorically, not silently, not precariously;
no one heard, of course, I was alone with the road.
I was tired, swollen—spinning in circles and serpentines
of endless words that were sewed together like a
good poem: “You’re not good enough” “You’re nobody”
“worthless, weak, falling, slowly in reverse”. I screamed—
because I controlled the crackling, dried and peeling lungs
that were neither inherited or tossed into my lap as a
hand-me-down. I picked them, like every organ, like every inch
of my skin, like the pretty blue dress laying on my bed—
to be mine. I ran, as far as my bones would let me—not fast
enough, not long enough, not strong enough. My blood hardened—
to the mold of my veins, carefully traced by careless child’s
fingers; knotting, clotting, dotting on the grass. It was planned, for me to be the bandage—fix the hole between my mother and father—
I made it deeper, every day. If I could be a mistake, the eraser
clippings on the floor, the one-eyed teddy bear
in two unflattering shades of grey—never touched. Then it would be, without a doubt or care,
nobody’s road to run on.