Part 58

One leg up. Then the other. There is no other
way out. The one who prattles on about being
a sport, about playing with the cards I am dealt,

is not interested in discussing privilege. The one
who preaches equanimity in the face of pain
will not take questions on compromise. A box

of labels. A box of solutions. Lines flow from one
to the other. Lines drawn by someone else. Lines
claimed by someone else. I climb higher. It is

the stairway that goes nowhere, just pushes
out of the grime and the swamp and the dark
crocodiles. Out of the toxic air to a place where

I can breathe. Away from the one who peddles
the bromide about god and fate, about the
greater suffering, about the lesser evil, about

affirmations and gratitude. The stairway to
nowhere rises into a different light. Where
seeing is a matter of faith. Where mirrors are

kind. The way up, without needing a shoulder
to lean on. Without needing hands to haul you
up. Arriving at each landing, your breath raw,

the burn in your legs smarting in your eyes,
your body parched with a thirst that has no
shame. No one is watching, no one is waiting,

no one is calling your name. Higher, how
much higher do I need to climb to get away
from the one who said it all and called it love?