Begging the question,
for what seems to be the millionth time.
“Why can’t we just catch a break?”

“Why does everything have to fuck up?”
The swing, now pushed feverently. So high, triggering the only appropriate response… Jump. Jumping off the swing, past the dirt and into the grass, to ask,
“What did I do so wrong in this life to deserve this ongoing turmoil? This pain? This stress?”

Landing with bent knees, tips of feet, leaning too far forward… Knees hit the ground, stabilized by weak wrists.
Looking up, hair strands untamed, streaking across face and eyes; eyes that look up, as eyelashes catch the unrulely strands of hair, unbothered, unblinking, above the eyes that burn, burn to land into an answer.
Now stating, in a defeated tone, adding extra dramatics by hanging of the head,
“I am just never good enough.”

Now, a race. A frantic and wild sprint. Flinging arms, smacking into any obstancal. If the answers cannot be found, perhaps they can be outran.