through the streets like a criminal or
gaining speed toward a waterfall
in the night,
without the light of the moon.
my movements are
something stealthy. they trace
that is not supposed to happen.
i could not step into
the spotlight of the street lamps.
i would turn into fire.
i could not jump in street puddles.
i would become water.
i could not follow the breeze.
air. i denied myself as a vortex, one
i appear to be,
as i did not want to sink into the earth,
unable to dig out
for a second chance at life.
breathing, i lowered my own crying head
into my hands
as if a romantic vision.
i have inhaled so much. my head hurts.