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By Rosie Bogumil


My body is a roadmap,

Of white ridges, undulating hills and

Curves of red mingling with slashes of grey,

As if a snail raced to cross this broken landscape.


Slow and steady is the path from darkness,

While I – the typical hare – cannot bear the harshness

Of reliving these moments.

Moment by moment by moment


The light gets further away,

Until it is untraceable. And I,

With no other option but the impossible,

Add fault lines to the map.


A sinusoidal function cycling through emotion,

My only refuge from hurt

Found in the refuge of pain.

It comes back to that same question,


Over and over and over.

And my answer remains the same.

As always, once again, just one more time,

I reply identically to insolence.


As if I know why

I desecrated my own body, and formed ridges

Where there should have been plains

And scars where there should have been none.

My body is a roadmap, and like a roadmap,

It is worn, weathered, and rough

Around the edges, from the trials of this

Adventure called life.




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