The Yardstick

I was an architect of shadows,
building monuments to men I didn’t know.
I spent my twenties squinting at their light
until my own retinas burned out
a professional mourner at weddings I wasn't invited to,
tallying their promotions like counts of a terminal clock.

Envy is a parasite that eats the host's eyes first.
I was hollowed out, a dry husk
rattling with the achievements of ghosts.
I was dying of a thirst
for a glass of water someone else was already holding.

Then, the exhaustion won.
I dropped the yardstick.

I stopped measuring the distance between my feet
and their finish lines.

In that sudden, heavy silence,
the static in my blood finally cleared.
I looked down and saw my own dirt
unmapped, uncelebrated, and damp.

There is no audience for the way the root
finally decides to take the earth.
It is a private, silent riot.
I am not "getting there."
I am simply, finally,
occupying my own skin.