Torn Away

by camlandes

My body slams down on an uncurled leg.

Suddenly, a pop.

My knee, uncooked pasta

and my body,

the chef that snaps it.

Wrinkled faces, with bodies clothed

in blinding white coats,

explain the reason for those seconds of agony.

Their routine explanation is my nightmare.

Disappointment surges inside me.

One wrong extension

as I battled for the precious ball

and my little world begins to drift away.

The pain,

demanding to be noticed,

but the anger,

burning too bright.

Each face frowns,

but the news doesn’t affect them.

Salty drops of sweat inch down my lip

as they force me to straighten my knee,

pushing farther and farther down.

I finger the source of my restraint.

Hamstring muscles

wrapping around each other,

forming a ball that tortures me.

Then the familiar aroma of freshly cut fields,

filled with heated competition

between my closest friends

as they battle for the precious ball.

My brain, begging me to join the fight,

but my body is avoiding it entirely.

So I warm the bench beneath my thighs

and watch

what used to be me.


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