But I'm not over it. I'm on
top of it. It took sixteen years
to reach the summit from climbing

on my tears with threadbare
shoes. I was born to lose. The air
up here is thin, wrinkling all my

skin. I don't have a flag, marking I
was here. All I have is a head full
of yesterday. And I've become

the prey. I spy an eagle flying. Jump to
hitch a ride. I glide like I have wings. But I
can't even fly, even as I cut the strings.