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.