you spat me out
at the very top of the tornado
where sky meets dust just high
it was blurry-dizzying,
nauseating most mornings
chewing-gum-
pin-balling between being
wrong and being wronger,
I know I was never wrongest
I slithered, spiraled down that
treacherous hole, it felt
like years and honestly
may have been but I
couldn’t remember
a single time I smiled
until I was out.
there was no definitive exit,
my feet just one-day felt ground,
moss between toes and sand
between toes and water between
toes which held me up like
a statue like a trophy, golden,
gliding across a road, alone:
the wrongest person alone
in her very own world.
Photo by Evilicio inc. on Unsplash
