I am me in the way that grass is grass or maybe a seed Once or will be the tracks the lawn mower leaves with the bellies of blades turned towards the sun some or Me. I am bare feet and pine needles sticking to the backs of my heels bark in my hair from the tree I leaned on I have splinters under my nails I exhale a slow trickle of water. I am me and here and I catch the water between my chin and my lip careful not to smile pressing rain in between my teeth and Sometimes there is no way to breathe without choking. why? There is bark in my hair from the tree I leaned on an embrace that left splinters under my nails and mud between my toes and on them and in them I am me and too muddy for a city girl I left my shoes on the beach when I was swimming and I never got them back. Glass shards of broken bottles sting the way that pine needles never did and and and the asphalt is black and sticks to my feet like mud but this burns too.
Bailey Lewis Van is a young writer living in San Francisco California. She attended San Francisco School of the Arts and studied creative writing under Heather Woodward, Tony Bravo, Maia Ipp, and Isaiah Dufort. She has been previously published in Umlaut and Synchronized Chaos.