I
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Yes you can, my inner heart says. But no, I swear this class is going to kill me. It’s going to break my heart all over again. I knew we would speak of disabilities but I wasn’t ready for the dying, the heartbreak, the myriad psychological connotations that take me back to days I've fought hard, written at length to get past. Those days I feel I've thought on far too often, days I gave their due and want to rent from my sleeve and slip into my pocket of bitter sweet remembrance. I only want to take them out again and smile soft with sad eyes. Instead on occasion I still weep openly and full, the triggers catching me off guard. I am weary of sadness, death, hardship and only want to seek my soul’s serenity, my heart’s content.

And yet haven’t those days driven me passionately to want to live, exploring those that cross my path that could never dream to pass by...

II
I fought hard last eve
in the wee hours, your
flesh my green jesus,
tried to articulate
in my head what my
voice could not speak
and yet still only
monosyllabic utterances
formed in quietude;

tran

scen

dence.