The Real Margin

Sometimes I listen to Soft White Underbelly. I think that could have been me.

Not another life.

This one, just slightly off.

In New York I was with someone who liked to talk to strangers. We were in a dispensary. A homeless man with a dog started talking to us. He sold crack. He followed us to an ATM.

We didn’t have any money.

That’s why nothing happened.

My money was already running out. I remember noticing how close everything felt. Not dramatic. Just close. Like there wasn’t much space left between one thing and the next.

In New York you see people bent forward, folded in on themselves. I didn’t know what it was called then. I only knew I kept noticing it. How bodies learn where to rest.

The girl who was raped when she was four. The people who never had anyone step in. I don’t think about bad choices.

I think about how early things start. How small the margin can be.

I didn’t have much of one either.

I made some bad decisions.

And still, I got out.

Some days that feels like something I earned.

Other days it’s just what happened.