I am a notebook lined with intimate inkings that are not my own.
I am an untrained runner in a marathon with legs that quiver and quit on me.
I am a brittle-backed leaf on bare limbs, desperately hanging on.
I am the earthworm tirelessly trekking the sun-soaked concrete path in search of the cool dirt, my skin shrinking around me.
I am a discarded bag forced by the wind to kite dance, dipping and diving, an empty carcass of plastic skin.
I am bone-tired, and every breath breaks me.
I am all these things on any given day. But I am here, and I am trying.