I am repulsed by my humanity.

By the passion swelling behind my ribs

Without my permission. By the aching

Pit that yearns for our skin to graze.

This rotten, foolish desire I know better

Than to embrace or succumb to. But

How can I blame the bees when Winter’s wind

Undoes their labor and frosts the flowers?

And how can I blame Winter’s gentle trespass

When they allow a weary Summer to rest?

How can I forgive everything else for what is

Far beyond their control, but myself?

The little things can’t help it; maybe I,

Myself, am little. But my heart appalls me.

So, I cannot accept that I am helpless to you.