I was already feeling cruel to myself.

For several nights, and several months,

I salvaged all I could.

He taught me this; this taught me

that; mistakes that I ingrained in my head

to never recur.

I weld no control over my destiny,

and that was all I knew.

//

Several nights outside, I ran

from front to front, back and forth

as hard as I could.

I sweated in the torrid August noon.

I bled—by my ankles to my nose.

I used austerity as an inspiration,

never once citing my lack of resources

as an excuse.

When done, I came home with a

weighted perspiration, sweat so heavy

that my odor trekked across the rooms.

I came home with scratches, bumps,

blisters, and clots, around my hands, legs,

and feet.

Soccer was a goal of mine, and

I was determined to succeed.

//

Several nights outside, the winter

cold has now beset.

The fall season has concluded,

though I have forgotten to cherish

its moments, its time.

But, it was fine. I had someone

else to tell about my memories; I 

had someone else to warn.

I walk, hand in hand, with my 

little sister, guiding her to her 

elementary, a school in which 

I was once enrolled.

I showed her all the tricks

and tips that I had learned, and 

told her that there was still 

so much more to learn.

I told her all the mistakes that

I had once borne, and told curtly

that this wasn't to happen to you.

I told her my regrets of not

appreciating my teacher enough,

of not appreciating time.

And, when she asks me how

high school is, I tell her blankly

it's fine.

There's a path for everyone,

and, for now, she just needed to

wait in line.

//

Several nights outside, together

in mid-July, I ask him about his plans

for the future, as two high schoolers

bike into the uncertainty of the night.

He tells me that he’s set, though

I remind him of life’s woes.

I tell him how destiny never seems

to abide by your characteristics of

conscientious work.

I tell him that we should be nervous,

though he never takes it slow.

He scoffs and says that that 

was him by nature, and that all

he needed was luck and time.

For luck was all he needed to attain

his loft, and time was all he needed to

prove that he was naturally gifted.

I tell him, one last time, that luck

may only work for as long as others

realize. Before long, hard work prevails

and soft luck will falter.

We argue, yet I prove right.

//

I write this poem today, to thank my

younger self for correcting my 

rectitude, and steering myself in the

right direction today.

I write this poem today, to remember

my sights, the sights that I’ve set forward

to initiate yet another success,

a success that I owe all to my roots,

my parents who have, by some miracle,

conducted a mindset that prevails

to this day.

Life corrects me, day after day,

adjusting my grammar by the weeks,

and challenging my thinking by

the months.

Over a year, I realize that my

nights outside had paid off.

//

Seven years ago, I tried out

for three local teams and got cut

from all three teams.

Four years ago, I had felt friendless,

thinking that quarantine had redefined

the entirety of my social life.

One year ago, I had felt the competitiveness

of high school, lapping me by the months,

mercilessly killing me by the second.

I kept everything internal, though,

not wanting my parents to think anything

wrong.

But, Dad noticed.

He's only ever said that much to me,

and much of it used to be negative. 

But, one day, I broke down in the 

dining room, after a heated discourse 

with my mom.

I cried so uncontrollably that I

ran away from the dining room, not

wanting my sister to get the wrong 

impression of me, not wanting my

mom to berate me even further.

Later on that night, I sat alone

at my desk, typing up my homework,

now fairly indifferent to the emotions

earlier that day.

Dad walked over, just prior to going to bed.

His hips intimated that he was going to say

something to me.

He parks in front of me, and he says to me

“Don’t worry about the failures.”

“Keep your eyes on the success.”

A quite unexpected visitor, as though we've known

each other for over sixteen years, our conversations

may only account for one.

But, what if I lose again?

He looks down, and I could

see in his eyes that he wished of someone

to have said this to him while he was

young and struggling.

He says to me softly, with

one hand folded over the other,

"Do your best."

"I understand your struggle."

A struggle that I thought only

I beheld similarly manifested in the

arcane youth of my dad.

//

Several nights outside, I kept 

the flame alight, hoping that one

day its warmth will effuse to the

whole of my community.