i. I submit to you that perhaps we do not need a miracle.
ii. Kneecaps never meant much to me. For half a year, I found myself in the spaces between slabs of cement. Sneakers meant escape, and breathlessness was one step short of invincible. God, I loved to breathe until my body became my lungs. I thought that if I could beat the clock, then I could beat the world and, for once, gravity would be the one laying flayed open on the ground, screaming for a taste of atmosphere.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever even beat myself.
iii. There are days when I want to descend into weather patterns and just exist. I want to succumb to tsunamis and drift like a bloated cadaver, to look a hurricane in the eye and let it twist me [break my legs and perhaps my
fucking useless writing arm.] To step knee-deep into the ocean and topple backwards, arms outstretched, the water reaching up like a maw, ripples chewing, pieces of me settling to the bottom.
There are mo