Content Note: This one has teeth (strong language)!
Sometimes life really is just one big playground.
The trick is remembering who brings the lemons — and who adds the sugar.
Just doing my thing.
Trying to jump on this already-spinning merry-go-round…
Clear space ahead.
I’m running. Picking up speed.
I leap cleanly.
Then rebound off your suddenly-there self.
Don’t you love it when someone sees where you’re aiming and decides to get there before you can?
Not that they didn’t have a spot.
They just wanted yours, too.
Fucker.
That’s okay.
I dust myself off, shake off the concussion.
Scan for another open spot.
But I’m eying you.
You—over there—busy staring at your nails.
Okay.
I can do this.
I see a spot. It’s just my size, too.
I start running.
Glancing your way every few steps.
Still staring at your nails.
I leap HUGE!
I’m taking this spot.
Until I find myself back in the dirt.
Skin-scraped from ankles to chin.
See you laughing.
Looking away.
Okay.
Fucker.
Two can play at this.
Mama didn’t raise no bitch.
I stalk off.
See you pointing at me.
And laughing hard.
Smoothly flip the bird.
As I turn the corner.
Go home.
Mama at the counter.
Making lemonade.
Sees me.
Hands me a washcloth.
No word spoken.
Just so.
I grab my cleats.
Lace them up.
Knee braces, too.
Accidents happen.
Best to be prepared.
Back in the kitchen.
Lemonade to go.
Back at the park.
I sit.
Sip my drink.
Slowly.
Suddenly you’re in my face.
“Gimme that.”
“No.”
“I said, GIMME THAT!”
Kick—Snatch.
Fucker!
I run for the ride.
Jump clean into place.
Staring down as you gulp it in one.
And spit it all out.
Coughing and hacking.
Face all scrunched up.
Like a spitball, wadded.
Oops.
Guess I forgot the sugar.
So. Many. Lemons.
Water optional.
Sour drink for a sour fucker.
Your mom steps out then.
Calls you home.
Sounds angry.
I settle in for the ride.
Tomorrow another day.
Sure, you’ll be back.
So will I.
That’s why we call it the game.
The trick isn’t in winning. It’s in showing up again, eyes open, ready for whatever comes next. — Liora
Thanks for reading this poem. If my work here speaks to you and you’d like to support it:
– Buy me a coffee — a small boost for the human behind the words.
– Feed the kitties — cover a day’s meals for the colony I care for; you’ll get Whiskers in the Dark, a mini-zine, as thanks.
– Grab my chapbook — Through the Fire, Vol. I is out now on Amazon, premium print + digital.
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I love the grit on this one!