I like to lift in the morning. No one hears me. No one listens to the clanking of weights. Reality doesn’t exist. My bones don’t hurt. I push, heaving 50, 70, 90 pounds. Past the heaviness and the soreness. My mind is quick and crowded.

A ghost hovers over my shoulder. I can almost hear him breathe. He terrifies me; one day he’ll win. Well, I’m pretty sure he’ll win. Chances are good.

On the outside, I am self-assured Onalee. The Football Girl, isn’t she so fearless? She helps so many be confident like her, so sad about her grandmother, so tough too. She’s got strength written all over her, listens really well, she’s so good with her friends, why can’t all teenagers be like her?

On the inside, I am insecure Onalee, questions everyone, thinks she can save herself, never lets anyone in. Miss Attention, Miss Reassure, annoying, ugly. Appearances can be quite deceptive. She’s going crazy, I’ve seen it before.

Lift more.

Pain drifts along with the muscles of my core and grips my arms. Raising, holding, evaporating… I’m distilling myself in the evening. The ghost is whispering in my ear. Push faster. Push beyond the walls, push beyond my limits. My chest is flayed open; no lungs to breathe with, no heart to pound. My skin is rough. I take it off when I’m unstable.