@my-inability-to-confront-reality. Sarah Licht
If life was a competition, I would have lost, tripped five feet past the starting line and bled my worth in skinned knees. And yet, my body remains scarred, sandpaper against the softness of life. Pick a piece of me to carry, parts scattered on pavement. I always found ants to be the supreme form of life. Always carrying on with legs crushed by predacious shoes, turning a momentary existence into something worthy. And no one asks ants if they’ve taken their medication. (I’m fine. My body was getting tired anyway.)
12
There are still bits of me that remain, what even the vultures refuse to carry, build nests from hearty bones. Someone told me my eyes resembled festering wounds. Maybe now they feel like home, rolling deep within a participation trophy. Another speck of life crawls onto my cheek, two bodies remembering to exist, to breathe.
