You make me want to fight a lion with a pencil, knowing the odds of winning are at an all-time low. by Livvy Fitzgerald

See, I already know graphite snaps in half, and teeth don’t.

But I’m not in it for the winning,

I’m in it for the spectacle.

For the headline.

For the “what was she thinking” whispered at funerals,

for the disbelief that someone so small

thought she could go jaw to jaw.

But maybe that’s the point.

To be devoured.

To leave claw marks across notebook paper

as proof I showed up to the fight I was never meant to win.

Because survival feels overrated in a world where happiness is mandatory.

Because sometimes the most honest prayer is a sharpened No. 2.

Because the lion is easier to face than the scrutiny of the masses.

And maybe I lose,

but at least the obituary will say I went down swinging.

And so I think about lions and pencils.

About funerals with bad catering.

About what happens when a body outlives the reason it was built for.

So here I am,

pencil in hand,

lion in sight,

ready

for

the

Punchline.