underneath me,
i feel the creaking floorboards
snap at my heels
like they're trying to escape the resin they're trapped in,
and i remember where i am.
i think
after all the tears and sweat
and dirt and soap
and cardboard skin
that scratches at my arteries
every time i get out of bed,
where i am
might be the okay part of it.
and i might only think it for a moment,
but i wonder⁠—
maybe the bags
under my eyes
and the scars on my hips
and the calluses on my fingertips
aren't just a burden
that settles between me
and the opportunities
that cut
and bruise me
like a slam to concrete.
but above all,
i hope that this "okay"
is permanent.
and if not,
i'll believe it enough
for it to be true.