what i write is never what i read only a broken influence, a misinterpretation, a misrepresentations of events. she scarred me. she healed me. i sat languorously on the edge and watched it all happen. or rather, i did everything and they watched me from the sidelines with bated breath, hands to their chests, clasped in the hopes i might turn in their direction. but al i saw was the field and a never ending sprint that i could not finished. she sighed. she mocked. i tripped. i stumbled. on my knees i let go of everything and found i had it all.