A part of me wishes I was more like the self I encounter in dreams —
you know,
the girl with unwavering loyalty and tactical agility,
who could climb two stories and bust through a window
to save your life or
the girl who mixed poisons on a hillside to survive the eco-apocalypse
while acid rain corroded the van’s roof or
the girl who led a defense against zombie-bears
mere minutes after being chased by a tiger on the beach or
the girl who found love in open arms,
no matter how often she felt like a sham.
Maybe I am these things:
minor combinations of tactical skill and emotional availability
to embrace the complicated life this is without the clear danger signs
of radioactive material, broken glass, frenzied animals, or deafening hallways.
Maybe, just maybe, I am worth saving, like the dream on the beach
where the tiger nearly got me — minus the tiger and the ocean.
Maybe
I am worthy
of something in this life.
So It Goes 