I am playing hot potato again

turning my histories

over between veiny hands

always desiring 

something more delicious

and burning through a forest

of tastebuds,

old journals, and bridges 

that used to lead to familiar places

But, if it was easy, would it be an adventure?

 

Often

I have been a coarse red brick

Like the one my grandmother heaved

Through the window

Of the family car

And when my ex caught me 

Baring my teeth and banging

My head against a kitchen cabinet

I wanted instead to turn to dust

But, if it was easy, would it be as much of a lesson?

 

Perpetually 

defiant of my own density

in body and mind, I rebel 

and when I am sluggish 

I set my sights on greater altitudes

refusing to be limited by heat and the

melting of my wings as I make yet another attempt

At proving how far I can climb

to again throw myself into the searing sun

But, if it was easy, would it be as much fun?

 

All of this 

is merely the brief shadow 

of a thing in motion

and from a distance

my bumbling and missteps

are forgotten by all but me

and when I look back at myself 

through the telescope of infinitely loving eyes

all I can see is a star eager to expand

And if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.