Comme Ci, Comme Ça

I sprinted like my lungs would tear,

like the ground owed me survival,

like every heartbeat could carve me a name.

Each step a scream,

each mile a blade pressed to skin.

Halfway meets me with a grin,

blood in its teeth,

saying,

"Not enough.

Not yours.

Not ever."

Comparison is a killer,

slips in through the ribcage,

rips the marrow from your pride,

turns effort into ash

before you can even breathe it out.

I bleed for what I cannot touch,

reach for what will never be mine,

my shadow thrashes at ghosts

while the world counts my scars

like trophies I'll never hold.

And still, I rise, trembling;

comme ci comme ça-

half-broken, half-burning

all human,

all unfinished.

naya. w