January one was trajectory. Flame. Combustion. Olympic energy. Short-fuse firework. Goalposts atop mountains. Testosterone sweat on broken-in running shoes.
Spring brought sunrise. A new name. A do it anyway attitude. I was avoiding mirrors and typing memoirs into the Google search bar.
By May, I was dripping blood. Gut half open, left hand inside, weeding any rules left unbroken. I unshelved anything that looked too tidy. I splashed soul over neat picket fences.
Joy was running in July rain. Roller skating carefree. Kissing a stranger in September. Feeling my heart thumping louder and harder. I was winning a game of hot and cold.
Autumn brought sickness. The type where you throw up something you shouldn’t have been eating for twenty-four years. I found a therapist who likes to take things apart as much as I do.
November I found a moldy grape inside me, filled with the sour things I’ve heard about women. It grins when I fail. Or when ten miles feels farther. Or when I turn out the lights before midnight.
It’s December and I’m gazing at goalposts above a glass ceiling I’d never noticed before. Every yes I’ve been told sounds half true. My biceps feel could have and my thighs beg for higher octane. I stare at unchecked boxes and blindfold goals.
January will bring Artemisian trajectory. Gal-set finish lines, just beyond where a man would place them. Audacious. Olympic. Sustainable and sole attainable.