One running charge, the thud, slap, wet boom of the feet springing and reaching and it's really more a vacuum than a pain until the ground is at my back.
What? Your hand is too blistered to extend? You have too many books to carry? Forgive me, please, it's only scratches.
(Internal bleeding is internal).
I don't even want your help. Try me. I'll turn you down, I'd recoil at your too-soft hands and take your sympathy for lack
of understanding. Pass me by. Don't waste your time. I'll hold my tongue and hope the fall broke my resentment along with my back.
"Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise." -Maya Angelou
Sitting, working, dressed in sunlight careful robes of softest white; a hedonist storing up warmth for when Spring changes her fickle mind.
In my computer screen I see a swallow, early returned to visit me, and hear the crows that caw and call on the newly budded trees in a blossoming landscape.
Only car sounds and my own tap tap tap of keyboard sounds and I can tell you these are nothing. I am warm on my right side too far still to reach the heart
but, don't recoil, this is a start.
"Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise." -Maya Angelou
