June 25, 2024

the critics

The critics are staring you down. You imagine sharks advancing your
pervious body, their teeth gleaming in the sharp light. You’ve memorized
this dance, of course. You’ve kept your legs bowed, your eyes at the exits. 
And yet each time, you jump at the movements in the water, feel your lungs
fibrillate wildly. What was it that plucked you from the kingdom you used
to rule, your courage planetary? What clawed you back from the edges 
you strode toward, muscles already mid-air? However you surrendered,
something of you remained obstinate, unceasing. Go to the sea floor now. 
Dig until your find her. She’ll be the one with her rib cage exposed, 
her heart a bright plum with the softest skin.