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Just How Small I Am.

By Michelle Friedman
Llike an asshole, I declared, I’d had enough.
It happened on a Wednesday. I started to walk uptown and then I started to run.
I wasn’t wearing sneakers, but my speed was remarkable.
As I ran—almost flying now—I threw my clothing to the side of the road. 
It felt like the right thing to do.
The freedom of the air finally touching my skin, all of it, under the ancient sun,
that afternoon, 
in this hot and overcrowded city where it can be hard to live, with nothing between me and
the world, made me wish
that I could move the Earth and hold its colors in my hand like the sun.
Control the tides, oversee darkness. 
When I stopped I looked right up into the center of it and screamed, “Leave me
the fuck alone,” 
because I know I’m never going to be in charge.
Staring directly at the sun will do you no good, or so I’ve been told. 
That night, I did what I could.
I took out my nail polish and painted each toe and each finger! a different color.
My own little universe: My own little kingdom of extremities. 
My nail polish is chipping now and I find the
cracked remnants of blue, and magenta and hot pink in my bed
where I lay awake nights thinking about the single explosion that started it all,
a noise so loud there was no sound
and here I am a single color, but one
particle in time.
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