Who am I   to- deny,
to reject.
To, discard
the boneless fruit that
is only inanimate clay.
I went to hold your hand
on the return ride
in the back of a NY taxi cab,
with the sense of imbricating
memories hanging heavy.
I touched the soft flesh 'twixt your
thumb and forefinger.
In that moment of time as we brushed skin
you shuddered
and I knew something had changed,
and I know now, what I hadn't the courage to say:
I am whomever I need to be
to survive.
That I am not the only one
left disfigured by the decisions we make.