sixteen.

Each yard I run, each second I gain
from riding faster. Every walk up a hill,
every set of pushups or crunches or lunges,

every balancing shift
as I lift my bike into a rack
is more than I expected.

That sound, that
hum-pop-vibration-crack in my chest
That vibrating tension,

of drowning in my own body,
I'd not wish on anyone.
I grew up with it, hovering.

No wonder I turned out awkward. Try
spending most of your childhood
waiting for your lungs to shutter

and leave you gasping on the ground.
See how adventurous you are a decade later.
There were the years I was better,

almost normal,
the fear tamped down.
There were years I wasn't.