I was barely a person, but I was. It hurt to run. It stung my muscles and my lungs. Organs bounced behind the flesh. My lungs ached to be rooted into another body. Snot and saliva spilled out of me every time I ran. I was salty skin and flailing limbs. I was a clumsy concoction of hormonal fluctuations and nerves. My attempt at inhaling air was a battle of pace and inability to understand what my body really wanted.
She can smile and laugh without being questioned. She can scream the truths calcifying in her arteries. She can pretend she is the real magician and turn into thorny red roses. Something beautiful. Never alone as she embraces the earth underneath with roots reaching deeper and deeper until they become tangled with every creature burrowing secrets inside.
I write to survive. Or writing has been a coping mechanism. Or writing has given me a way to tell my story over and over because parts of my body story will never leave me. I have come to terms with the fact that if I live to be seventy years old, there may be something in the air to give me a flashback into the portal of trauma. The portal could begin with an image or a name or the way my eyes look deeper when I am sad. Anything can transport me back.