Britney

The storm splits the heat like mango halves, letting it settle throughout the air around me instead of concentrating on the outskirts of my body. I am thinking about Law. Not law, but Anne Carson’s Law in Glass, Irony and God. I have my own Law, someone who is former and only escapes when I start a new poem or look too deeply into myself. I never got a resolution. My five years’ cry for reparations. New thought—I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to move, I don’t want any part in the consumption cycle. Scratch that one. It’s on the blacklist.

The room is empty around my mattress. I’ve got it all. It took me two hours to get here yesterday and I cried in the middle of the street on my board because it was dark enough. I have returned to a place where I am not at home because I have listened too much to myself and my stillborn confessions and my daily atrophy.

June is a whole year, waiting for my sharp turn around the corner so it can pounce. I admire the way it bleeds me because I could never have that kind of predatory instinct.

I turn 17 next month, and my favorite game is seeing how far I have come from starting these diaries at 13 during the peak of middle school to now, the long jump before college. It’s an unbelievable distance. I practice running it in my mind during moments like these, when the temptation to stop the climb upward is tugging at my waist, tied rope in hand. It never chases me the way I expect it to. I’ve learned how to escape too easily. I wonder when I will be entirely grateful for this footing, this absence of slips. I’m learning. ♦