I hug my legs and look down at my dirty feet and think of how they would look- my arms splayed about like a bird, my brown hair behind me, racing to keep up with my body, my clothes pulling, clinging to what's above me, revealing my girlish figure.
Yep, I'd really look like something. It'd be a vertical journey to somewhere nobody else had gone. I'd be a bird and I'd fall as fast as I flew. The problem is I'm not a bird and as gracefully as I might fall, my landing would be catastrophic. Because birds don't have newspapers do they? People won't talk about them for days, will they? They don't have gossip and whispers about how you were beaten or how you had missed everything you ever aimed for and maybe that's why. Birds don't have people to question why they fly away and why they plunge to the ground to get out of a storm-lit sky.
And birds have wings not arms. And nests to land on. And thin sticklike feet that don't crush like bones when they land.
Yep, I'd really look like something- but not a bird because I'm not one. I'm a girl and we don't fly or plunge, we drop like rocks, dead weight. We'd look like something but we wouldn't land. Our bodies would hit and our spirits would drain out, shrinking into some shadow, crushed under broken bodyweight and shame. We'd look like something to talk about for days, weeks... remember that girl who...?
And then we'd be nothing and we would know what it was like.