Late

Seven forty-two. The bell doesn't wait
for anyone, and neither does the bus
pulling away exactly as I reach the curb—
exhaust and taillights, a small red insult
receding down the street.

​

So I run.

​

Backpack slamming against my hips,
sneakers finding a rhythm I never chose,
past a man walking his dog,
time being something he isn't afraid of,
past my own reflection, ghosting
window to window, always half a block behind me—
a girl who has always almost arrived,
almost enough, almost ready,
almost the person she meant to be
by now.

​

The streetlight turns. I don't stop.
Cars complain in horns I hear
as if from underwater—everything slowed
except the numbers climbing on my phone,
except my lungs, except the small, mean voice
that doesn't just count down minutes
but counts everything I started too late,
loved too late, became too late,
as if there's a version of me
somewhere up ahead, on time,
and I've been chasing her my whole life.

​

Three blocks. Two.
The school gate is just a gate—
metal, ordinary, not even locked—
but I sprint the last stretch anyway
like it's closing,
like this is the only door
that will ever open for me,

​

and maybe that's the real problem:
not that I'm late,
but that I keep mistaking
every door for the last one.