Dirty Red Commie

i fall too often.

tumbling: down head over heels, ass over teakettle (as some would say)
bruising face and limbs, a network of tiny cuts from many impacts covering my skin

old scars remembering the fun.

i grin to myself as i succumb (oh so uncoordnated) to gravity  or what prefers to call itself as such.
it's a costume.  a disguise to hide the tears and the pain.

from my protector
from my self

and when it's over i'll pull my body with its ancient hurts up off the floor
grab the railing so enticing, so convenient
and walk, wincing when the weight comes down on the ankle that slammed into the wall, climbing the staircase again.

waiting for the next push.