The Art of Walking

The doctor walked in the room and said,

“Things don’t look great

but there’s a chance.”

Well, hallelujah

at least there’s a chance.

Nevermind that I’m seventeen  

and will be forced to use a cane.

Nevermind that my football scholarship

is gone.

Nevermind that my girlfriend will walk away

now that I can no longer follow her

At least there’s a chance.

Eventually I’ll regain my ability to walk.

With some painful trial and error

and a sturdy peg leg

I should be able to walk in no time.

But not without the occasional stumble

over lives ruined and relationships lost

Or the knowledge that my leg is gone.

Or knowing that the she-devil that did this

got away with a few minor scratches.

Nothing more.

I bet she doesn’t even think about me  

If she’d been paying attention

she wouldn’t have hit me.

If she hadn’t hit me,   

my car never would’ve swerved off the road

If my car hadn’t slammed into that pole

my leg wouldn’t have been crushed.

If my leg wasn’t shattered

I’d have two legs.

If I had two legs,   

I’d still be a miserable person.

My parents would still be divorced.

And my brother would still live out of state.

I’d still feel lost in this stupid town

full of dense people

I’d still have no clue how to get out of here

or what to do with my life.

I’d still cry every night

because even though I hated football

I played  

so I could have a conversation with my father.

I’d still hate myself

for all the stupid choices I’ve made

I’d still be a terrible person.

But hey,

at least I would be able to walk.

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